


Harold Prince and the Philosopher's Stone

by sabby1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:50:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 76,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7582099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabby1/pseuds/sabby1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if on the night of November 1, 1981 someone else was there when Dumbledore dropped Harry off on the Dursley's doorstep? What if that person decided to spare the child a life of trauma and ignorance of his true heritage? What if ...</p>
<p>By the time Petunia Dursley opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, there was nothing to scream about, only some soot that she brushed away with the tip of her shoe before she disappeared back inside the house.</p>
<p>Severus Snape, on the other hand, found himself with a screaming bundle in his arms on the doorstep of the last house on Spinner's End in Cokeworth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-imagining of the first Harry Potter book under the premise that Harry grew up in the care of his 'Uncle' Severus Snape in the last house on Spinner's End in Cokeworth, Northern England. I don't own any of the original material, and no infringement is intended. The idea just wouldn't leave my head until I started writing it down. 
> 
> This work contains many paraphrased elements from the original book and the odd direct quotation here and there where it was difficult to avoid or made no sense to change, for example, McGonagall's invitation letter to Hogwarts. I am not going to point out the individual instances, as you will surely spot them right away if you have read the book. 
> 
> An important note if you came here looking for a romantic/sexual relationship between Severus Snape and Harry Potter. THAT WON'T HAPPEN. Severus has taken in Lily's child because he loves Lily more than he hated James Potter. The main twist to the canon character is that the news of Lily's death propelled Severus into immediate action, rather than leaving him catatonic for the next 11 years until he was needed by Dumbledore.

Severus Snape was ashamed to say that he was still alive. He was the last person you'd expect to regret such a thing, because he would never entertain such namby-pamby boohooing outside of his current circumstances. 

Severus was part of a group of people who firmly believed that the blood lineage of a person should decide their fate in life. He was tall and thin, with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin, an appearance that befitted his unpleasant personality. 

He also had a terrible secret, and his greatest fear was that someday everyone would discover that he had committed the most heinous crime. In an act of pure foolishness, he had given away information and set in motion a sequence of events that he would regret for the rest of his life. As a result, he was now indebted to a man he loathed, bound to a cause that went against everything he had been taught, and acting upon a promise that had lost all meaning before it was ever uttered. He shuddered to think what people would do to him if they ever learned the truth. 

When Severus Snape melted into the crowds of London on the dull, gray Tuesday afternoon this story begins, there was nothing about his appearance that suggested even the vaguest possibility of the strange act he would later commit. Around him, people were hurrying to and fro across the streets. They hailed taxi cabs to meet appointments, carried shopping bags from their errands, or headed back to work after a late lunch. Few of them seemed to notice or care that a number of strangely dressed fellows wandered among them. A short woman wearing a smart black suit and leading a poodle glanced askance at the tall man wearing a magenta cloak and purple high-heels who stopped next to her at the traffic light. But the man grinned and wished her a wonderful day before he crossed the street and joined a group of women in bright colored robes who were huddled around a news kiosk, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. High above their heads, a tawny owl circled twice before it zoomed off toward the north. Less than a minute later a snowy owl flew by, headed south-west. 

Severus kept his head low and avoided the eyes of passersby as he waited at the bus stop and boarded the southbound line to Little Whinging. En route, he pretended not to hear the chatter from the back row where two girls dressed in school uniforms were giggling in excitement and bouncing on their seats. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes, I heard this morning. My brother is, you-know, and he works for the Ministry. He said there've been owls all morning."  

"Oh my God, that's great. We're saved!"

Severus squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands. He did not want to hear. The cause of their joy was the reason for his misery. 

It was just as well the two girls got off at the next stop. Nobody else on the bus seemed to have any inkling about what had happened the night before; just Muggles going about their day, none the wiser that the greatest threat to their kind for the past eleven years had been wiped from the face of the earth.

As Severus exited the bus at the stop near Magnolia Road, he noticed a parliament of owls perched on top of a rusty swing set in the middle of a playground. There were seven of them, and not two were of the same species. Severus scowled at the spectacle. The largest of the birds, a great, angry looking eagle-owl, fluffed its wings and hooted as if to say "What?" Severus sneered at the bird and carried on, following Magnolia Road toward his final destination. 

He came to an abrupt stop at the end of Wisteria Walk, about a hundred feet away from number four, Privet Drive, and ducked behind the cover of a tall tree. 

There, on the garden wall, sat a tabby cat, its back turned to Severus, focused on the far corner of Privet Drive. A cat on a garden wall was not something out of the ordinary if it weren't for the fact that no ordinary cat would ever sit so stiffly for so long with its head held high and its tail curled primly around its paws.

Severus muttered under his breath and slipped into the shadows of the tree until his form had all but disappeared against the rough bark of its trunk. 

He was certain if the cat were to turn its head and look in his direction, he would see square, black markings around its eyes. 

Time passed slowly as the cat watched the end of the street and Severus watched the cat. Shortly before six o'clock, a car pulled into the driveway of number four. A fat, red-faced man with hardly any neck but an impressive mustache growing under his nose stepped out. He startled at the sight of the cat, tried to shoo it away unsuccessfully, and entered the large, square house. 

Severus remained hidden by the tree as the sun dipped below the horizon. The street lamps came on, and, shortly after, the downstairs windows all along Privet Drive lit up. Under the cover of darkness, Severus chanced moving and sat down at the base of the tree. With his head leaned back against the rough bark, his gaze moved up to the cloudless sky. 

Thousands of shooting stars showered across the inky canvas. Their bright tails streaked crossways in groups, chasing each other between the twinkling stars. 

Severus glared at the foolish display until his eyes burned. He sat motionless as the spectacle continued above his head, tears dripping silently down his cheeks. 

Lily would have loved this. 

Long after the last shooting star had disappeared, Severus was still staring into the endless void, thinking about a girl with beautiful green eyes and long red hair who would never see the sky - or anything else - again. 

When the street lamps suddenly flickered out, one after the other, Severus jolted and turned to look at the street corner the cat had been watching.

There stood an old man with a long silver beard, dressed in a purple cloak and high-heeled, buckled boots, one fist raised high in the air. Albus Dumbledore. His blue eyes swept the street with a steely gaze behind the crescent-shaped spectacles perched on his long nose.  

Severus held his breath. He did not dare to move. 

The last remaining street lamp went out and darkness swallowed Privet Drive whole. 

Albus Dumbledore did not spare a glance at the tree under which Severus sat as he joined the tabby cat on the garden wall. After a moment, the cat stretched in all directions and turned into a stern-looking woman with black hair and square spectacles. Professor McGonagall. 

They were too far away to hear what they were saying, but Severus had no need to eavesdrop. He knew it all. Dumbledore had told him what the Dark Lord no longer could. 

Anger gnawed at Severus like a stray dog on rotten meat and bone. 

If he'd only acted sooner ... If he'd never overheard the prophecy ... If the Dark Lord had gone after the other boy ... If only Severus had died instead. It was no use. What was done was done.

Severus watched the conversation from his hiding place below the tree. The two had much to talk about and seemed in no rush to leave their meeting place on the garden wall. 

Where was the boy, Severus wondered. Hadn't Dumbledore said he would bring him here? Had Severus misunderstood?

Professor McGonagall blew her nose on a lace handkerchief and Dumbledore checked his pocket watch. Then Dumbledore said something that upset McGonagall so much she jumped to her feet and pointed at the house behind them, her mouth moving quickly with a look of horror on her face. Dumbledore looked unmoved by her outburst.

Severus frowned. 

The only person he had seen going into the house had been the fat, neck-less man with the impressive mustache. He wondered if that man was the reason McGonagall was so upset. He was a Muggle, judging by his appearance and mode of transportation. Of course, someone like McGonagall would think their precious savior was too good to live with Muggles. Severus pressed his thin lips together and glared at the witch.

A low rumbling in the distance came closer and turned into a deafening roar over his head. Severus ducked as a huge motorcycle zoomed over the crown of his tree. 

It dropped onto the road a few feet in front of Dumbledore and McGonagall. The man riding the bike was an enormous hulk, easily twice the size of a normal man, with unkempt black hair and beard, a chest as broad as a whiskey barrel, and limbs as big as tree trunks. Tucked inside one of his burly arms was a bundle of blankets. 

Severus's jaw dropped as he recognized the man: Hagrid, the gamekeeper at his old school. He watched as the half-giant handed over the bundle of blankets to Dumbledore and bent in half to stick his big, scratchy face into the folds. Then the oaf howled like a wounded animal and buried his face in a handkerchief that looked like it was made from an old pillowcase. 

As McGonagall consoled Hagrid, Dumbledore carried the bundle to the front door of number four, Privet Drive and placed it on the doorstep. He took something out of his robes and put it down as well, then stood back up and returned to the others at the garden wall. 

Severus waited impatiently as the three stood around for a full minute until Dumbledore finally broke their silent vigil. Hagrid straddled his motorcycle and drove off first. McGonagall blew her nose again as Dumbledore said his goodbyes and walked off in the direction he had arrived from. She transformed back into a tabby cat and started to slink down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street.

Severus sat perfectly still and held his breath while she passed his tree and all the way until she disappeared around the corner.

At the other end of Privet Drive, Dumbledore stopped and raised his fist again. One by one, the streetlamps came back to life. Then Dumbledore turned on his heel and disappeared with a swish of his cloak. 

Severus released the breath he had been holding and turned his head. From where he sat, he couldn't see the doorstep of number four, but he knew what awaited him there all the same. 

A breeze ruffled his hair and the leaves above his head rustled. 

Severus sat quietly for another moment before he climbed to his feet and crossed the street with unhurried steps. He was not afraid he might be seen. If anyone happened to look out the window, all they might catch a glimpse of was a shimmer in the air that disappeared as soon as they blinked their eyes. 

Severus stopped in front of the doorstep and sank into a crouch, his arms crossed over his knees. The blanket was so heavy that the edges had drooped over each other. Lifting one corner between his fingers, he peered underneath the folds. It was an ordinary baby boy, with black hair and a thin scar, shaped like a lightning bolt, on his forehead. 

Severus sneered. This was what he had sworn to protect? This was who Lily had chosen to die for? This ...

The baby opened its eyes. 

All thoughts were driven from his mind as Severus fell into the clear green gaze. His ears filled with the long forgotten echo of squealing laughter. A sweet voice called his name; the sound carried to him on a gust of wind that ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was still at the doorstep of number four, Privet Drive. The baby in the blankets was gurgling quietly, drool bubbling at the corner of his mouth, as tiny fists shook excitedly at nothing. 

Severus averted his gaze with a scowl. He noticed an envelope tucked into the folds of the blanket under the baby's chubby arm. Using only his forefinger and thumb, he moved the squishy appendage out of the way and retrieved the envelope with his other hand. 

It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Dursley. 

Severus arched one eyebrow and broke the seal without a second thought. He scanned over the contents of the letter, written in Albus Dumbledore's neat hand, and rolled his eyes at the inane drivel. 

The old man expected the Dursleys to raise the child away from the fame and glory that would befall him in their world, and yet in the same breath Dumbledore expected them to explain everything to the child when he was old enough. Helpfully included was a summation of events that had transpired, which utterly failed to tell the whole story. 

It was presumptuous. It was manipulative. It was shortsighted. It was perfectly in character with the type of person Albus Dumbledore was. 

Severus did not know Mr. Dursley, but he had gleaned from the letter that Mrs. Dursley was none other than Lily's older sister, Petunia. There was a greater chance for a snowstorm in July than Petunia raising Lily's son with kindness, let alone teaching him the truth about the people she used to refer to as freaks. 

The paper crinkled as Severus clenched the letter in his fist and muttered, "Incendio." 

It burst into flames and burned to ash within a second.

Severus brushed the dirt off his hand and gathered the bundle of blankets in his arms. He stood up, turned on his heel and disappeared with a pop of displaced air. 

The doorstep of number four, Privet Drive was exactly as Mr. Dursley had left it when he entered the house. By the time Petunia Dursley opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, there was nothing to scream about, only some soot that she brushed away with the tip of her shoe before she disappeared back inside the house. 

 

Severus Snape, on the other hand, found himself with a screaming bundle in his arms on the doorstep of the last house on Spinner's End in Cokeworth. At a loss, Severus quickly ducked inside the dilapidated brick building and closed the door before the smell of the dirty river nearby could waft into the house. 

Severus looked around the small sitting room, hoping for inspiration. He very much doubted that any of the countless leather-bound books on the shelves along the walls would be helpful in caring for an infant. 

Shifting the crying baby in his arm, he dropped his wand out of his sleeve and pointed the tip at the candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling.

"Incendio."

The candles flared to life, giving the tiny room a dim orange glow. 

Severus longed to curl up in the old armchair, or perhaps stretch out on the sofa by the window, and just think. However, he had a screaming bundle to care for and no idea how to make it stop. 

He pointed his wand at the wall of bookcases behind the armchair and a hidden door swung open, revealing a narrow wooden staircase. Severus took the steps two at a time and hurried upstairs into the smaller bedroom in the back. The room had been unused for quite some time. Dust had settled on the covers of the twin sized bed under the window and on the rickety desk against the wall. With a quick swipe of his wand, Severus Vanished the dust from the bed and placed the bundle upon the covers. Then he sat down on the three-legged stool in front of the desk and stared at the screaming infant. 

"Be quiet," he said urgently. "There's nothing to scream about." 

That, of course, was a lie. There were plenty of things to scream about in the current situation, not the least of which was the fact that he had stolen a child from the doorstep of its only surviving family member. 

"What was I thinking?" 

The child continued to cry as Severus stared on helplessly. There was nothing in this house he could think of that would address the needs of an infant. As far as he remembered there was not even any food in the kitchen. He didn't bother to keep any because he so rarely came here. This would have to change. 

The child kept wailing. 

"Oh, please. For the love of -- Be quiet!"

Three loud bangs echoed through the house. 

Severus sprung to his feet, wand raised and rushed down the stairs to the sitting room. 

Another three bangs shook the front door. 

"Who's in there?" a muffled voice yelled outside. 

Severus opened the door just a crack, wide enough to see who was causing the commotion on the other side of the door. 

A very old, very short lady with curly gray hair and beady brown eyes stared up at him. She wore a tatty knit jacket over a pair of faded jeans and scuffed brown shoes, and she was holding a metal walking cane by its shaft with the butt of the heavy rubber handle pointed at the door. 

"Who are you?" she asked, squinting her eyes into thin slits. 

Severus Snape closed his mouth and looked down his nose at the impertinent old bat. 

"I am the owner of this house," he said coldly.

"Really?" she croaked. "Bin livin' 'ere fer thir'y-sum years, me. Never 'eard a peep from this gaff, and now a baby scrikin' in the dead of night?"  

The woman's accent was so thick that Severus had a hard time understanding the words out of her mouth. His fingers tightened around his wand. He had never been very good at memory charms. 

"I assure you, madam. I am the owner of this house." 

"Awrigh', wha's yer name then?" 

"Severus Snape," he hissed.

"Tobias Snape's lad?" The woman's eyes widened, and she rose up on her tip toes, peering into his face.

"Yes." He scowled. 

"Thought ye'd left when they closed the ol' mill." 

"I didn't." 

Upstairs, the baby was still crying at the top of his lungs, filling the uncomfortable silence. The woman braced herself on her cane and regarded Severus with pursed lips. 

"Wha's with the babe then?" she asked.

"That is none of your business," Severus said through gritted teeth. "If there is nothing else..." He started to close the door, but the steel shaft of the woman's cane stopped it cold.

"Look," she said, "Wha' it is, is I can't sleep wi' that scrikin' goin' on, an' you clearly need 'elp. So let us in an' we'll get the babe sorted, yeah?" 

Severus stood behind the door, uncertain. He did not want to allow a stranger into his house, but if there was anything the woman could do to make the child stop crying, it would be a miracle he hadn't asked for. 

He slipped his wand back into the sleeve of his shirt and opened the door wider to let the woman in. She barely glanced around the sitting room as she headed for the staircase behind the armchair faster than her cane should allow. Severus followed her, not sure what to say or do.

"Name's Moll," she said as she lumbered up the stairs and followed the screaming into the back bedroom. "Blimey!" 

Severus cringed. Moll dropped her cane at the edge of the bed and picked up the squalling bundle in her arms. 

"Ooh." She sniffed at the bundle, then turned her nose up with a gag. "Those nappies are rank. Got any fresh ones?" 

Severus shook his head.

"How 'bout food?" 

He shook his head again.

"You got anythin'?"

He shook his head again.

"Blimey!" Moll said again. 

She picked up her cane then slowly walked back out the door, past Severus, bouncing the crying baby in her arm. Severus hung back and watched as Moll walked confidently into the bathroom and puttered around, picking up a towel from the cabinet below the sink. She unwrapped the baby and sat him in the cast iron tub, making soothing noises as she threw out the soiled diapers and cleaned the boy with warm water and soap. When she was done, she swaddled the baby in the towel and hoisted him back into her arms. He was finally, blissfully, quiet. 

Severus breathed a sigh of relief. It didn't last long when Moll looked at him with an expression of unveiled contempt.

"Yer gonna tell me why you got a babe but no nappies an' not a scrap to eat or should I just go an' call Welfare first thin' in the mornin'?" 

Put on the spot, Severus had no idea what to say. He hadn't thought this far along. The truth was, he had not planned to bring a baby into this house. He had not planned anything beyond seeing for himself the reason that the woman he loved was dead. 

Moll's glare sharpened as the silence dragged on. Severus opened his mouth, thinking fast. He had learned at a young age that the best way to hide a lie was the truth. 

"He was left on the doorstep." 

"What?" Moll looked suspicious. 

"There was a letter," Severus continued, providing more truth to cushion the lie. "It said he was very special and to take care of him. Inane drivel. I burned it." 

Moll clucked her tongue and shook her head, gently rocking the boy in her arms to sleep.

"Who would do such a thing?" she asked with a grim frown.

Severus swallowed and licked his lips. 

"My cousin," he lied. "He's just that sort of man." 

Showing the right level of disdain was not difficult. All Severus had to do was think of the father of the boy in Moll's arms, and his expression turned sour on its own. 

"Such a shame," Moll said quietly. "You'll be needin' a lot of stuff ter take care of this one." 

"I know." 

He had no idea what he would need, but asking the woman was out of the question.

Severus watched as Moll rocked the baby in her arm for a few moments before she carried him back into the bedroom and placed him gently on the bed. She pulled the pillows from the headboard and tucked one on either side of him. 

"With any luck, he'll sleep through the rest of the night," she said. "Buy food firs' thing in the mornin' then, an' don' forget nappies an' a decen' crib." 

She listed off more things, unasked, as Severus walked her back to the front door. He affected a disinterested scowl but tried to commit as many of them to memory as possible, even though he had no idea what some of them were.

When she stood on the other side of his threshold again, she leaned on her cane and pointed one finger up the cobble stone street. 

"I live up there," she said. "Second house on the right." 

Severus nodded. 

He had always thought that he was the only resident left on Spinner's End. Almost everyone in this part of town had been dependent on the mill and had left when it closed a couple of years ago. Most of the houses were abandoned and boarded up, condemned by the city. 

"Good luck, lad," Moll said, "and good night."

"Good night, madam." He nearly closed the door in her face before he remembered. He may not have asked for her help, but she had done him a favor regardless. 

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

"You're welcome."

After he closed the door, Severus leaned against the worn wood and closed his eyes. He was more tired than he had ever been in his life. Upstairs, sleeping, lay the reason for his misery: the boy Severus had sworn to protect even though the only reason to protect him had died the night before. 

With a heavy sigh, Severus dragged himself back up the stairs and into the master bedroom. He didn't bother to undress and barely remembered to take off his boots before he fell onto the lumpy old mattress and stared at the ceiling. 

A few hours later, Severus was still awake when a tawny owl dropped the Daily Prophet on his doorstep. He picked up the newspaper and rolled his eyes at the headline. 

 

Boy Who Lived - Vanished!

 

Rescued from the ruins of an undisclosed location, the whereabouts of Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, are currently unknown. The boy was last seen in the care of gamekeeper Rubeus Hagrid of the renowned Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the early morning hours following the attack on the night of October 31 that vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, which also claimed the life of both young parents. The infant Harry Potter is said to have been injured in the attack and can be identified by a scar on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt. Rumors are spreading that he has been taken into custody by Aurors from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Ministry of Magic has not issued any official comment on the matter, and our protected sources within the Ministry remain suspiciously mum. Has an ill fate befallen the young hero who saved us all? 

 

Severus folded the newspaper with a disgusted snort and dumped it in the bin next to the fireplace. Kindling was all it was good for.  

After a quick glance into the kitchen cabinets confirmed there was no food in the house, Severus went upstairs to check on the so called young hero.

The baby was still asleep in Severus's childhood room, tucked between two pillows on the creaky twin bed. 

Severus was faced with the first conundrum of the day. He had to go shopping for the child, but in order to do so he would have to leave the house and there was no one to watch over the child while he was gone. There was nothing for it, the boy would just have to come along. 

As Severus realized what he had truly gotten himself into, his face fell into a stunned gawk. With no one to help him, he could expect to have a child permanently attached to his person wherever he went for at least the next several years.

Resigned to his fate, Severus retrieved a fresh towel from the bathroom and transfigured it into the closest thing to a one-piece baby suit he could manage. The feet were misshapen and the color was the same ugly beige as the original towel, but it would cover the boy until Severus could buy some real clothes. 

Once he had wrangled the suit onto the pliant body, he picked up the sleeping boy in his arms. As he attempted to comb the tousled shock of black hair out of the baby's face, he noticed the scar that the article had mentioned. The distinct lightning bolt shape would be a dead giveaway to any wizard who spotted it. With an annoyed scowl, Severus slipped his wand from his sleeve, pointed it at the baby's forehead, and muttered a concealment charm under his breath. The lightning bolt shimmered and disappeared, leaving behind a perfectly smooth, rounded forehead. It would serve his purpose until Severus could find a better way. He tucked his wand back into his sleeve and embarked on the most complicated shopping trip of his life.

 


	2. The Boomslang Case

Less than a month had passed since Severus had carried Lily's baby boy over his doorstep, but the last house on Spinner's End had irrevocably changed. The tiny sitting room in the front was the last vestige of days gone by with its neat set of furniture and rows upon rows of bookshelves covering the walls. Every other room in the house had been taken over by the trappings of child-rearing.

The kitchen cabinets were stuffed with cereal boxes, macaroni cheese, and jars of pureed vegetables, meats, and fruits. A high-chair took up all the space along one side of the kitchen table. Baby bottles, sippy cups, and plastic dishes had usurped the counter on the left side of the sink, while the right-hand counter remained a stubborn hold-out for the bare essentials of potion making such as cauldrons, mortar and pestle, and a set of silver instruments.

Upstairs, the small back bedroom was barely recognizable. Where once had been a creaky twin bed was now a sturdy crib. The rickety writing desk had been ruthlessly demoted to a changing table, roofed with a thick rubber mat and loaded down with wipes and salves. Even the master bedroom had not escaped unscathed. In the corner behind the door resided a permanent pile of clean laundry; baby socks, and baby suits, and baby shirts, and baby pajamas, and bibs, and towels, and sheets were overflowing a groaning wicker basket. There was no use folding them to put them away. In the bathroom, next to the iron tub, was the ugly twin sibling of the wicker basket: the permanent pile of dirty laundry, barely contained under the lid of a tall wicker hamper.

The Daily Prophet still arrived on the doorstep every morning, but Severus had very little time to devote to the sensationalist articles chronicling the otherwise dull proceedings of post-war trials and tribulations. He had a child to raise.

One morning, shortly after he picked up the newspaper, but before he had a chance to put on the kettle, there was another tap on the front door. Severus put the kettle on the burner, turned on the stove, and went to answer the door. He opened it just wide enough to see who was on the other side. An official looking eagle-owl was hovering in mid-air with an envelope in its beak. The large brown seal identified the sender as the Ministry of Magic. Severus snatched the letter from the owl's beak and slammed the door in the bird's face. He broke the seal with shaking fingers and read the missive inside.

> Dear Mr. Snape,
> 
> We have received intelligence that you belong to a group called the Death Eaters, supporters of the recently vanquished You-Know-Who. Eye-witness statements have placed you at no less than three incidents in the company of other known Death Eaters.   
>  You are hereby summoned before the Wizengamot for a hearing at 10 a.m. on Monday, November 21, 1981. You will be required to give testimony as to your affiliation with the Death Eaters and your involvement in any crimes committed in service of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Failure to appear will result in an immediate order for your arrest and detention in Azkaban.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Bartemius Crouch, Sr.  
>  Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
>  Ministry of Magic

Severus closed his eyes and swallowed. The hearing was scheduled for this day. He had two hours to find someone to care for the baby, Apparate to London, and appear before the highest wizard court to be questioned about his Death Eater status.

His vision swam in front of his eyes as a shrieking whistle grew deafening in his ears; it reached a fever pitch before Severus remembered. He had put the kettle on. He dropped the letter and ran to the kitchen. Moving the boiling water to a cold burner, he switched off the stove top. There was no time for tea.

Fifteen minutes later, Severus had dressed in his cleanest set of black robes and wrangled the child into a set of Muggle clothes, topped off with a thick down jacket and a knitted hat that hid most of his messy black hair.

On such short notice, there was only one place he could think of to take the boy. Severus plodded up the street, careful not to slip on the wet cobblestones with a toddler in one arm and a huge bag over his other shoulder. He came to a stop in front of the blue door belonging to the second house on the right and rang the bell. Then he knocked on the door.

There was a shuffle inside before someone shouted in a cranky voice.

"--yer knickers. I'm comin'."

The door opened a few inches and a disgruntled face ringed with red curlers peered out through the crack.

Severus huffed. The cold air turned his breath into a puffy white cloud in front of his face as he screwed it up in a nasty grimace.

"I need help," he forced through his teeth.

Moll opened the door wider and stepped back to let him into her home.

Her tiny sitting room was bright and cozy. A squashy beige couch sat opposite two equally squashy armchairs around an oval coffee table with stubby, curled legs. In the center of the table stood a squat vase with a huge bouquet of flowers. On the wide bureau below the window, more flowers poked out in between picture frames and porcelain bric-a-brac. The table lamps on either side of the couch had pink, blue, and yellow blossoms on their lampshades, and similar blossoms ringed the edge of the pillows on the couch and arm chairs. Even the wallpaper had tiny pink flowers on it.

Severus suppressed a groan but did not bother to hide his sneer for the cloying potpourri of faux and real flora that assaulted his senses. Moll ignored his expression and extended a hand to her couch.

"Have a seat then. I s'pose you'll be wantin' a brew?"

Severus remained standing and shook his head as he shifted the boy in his arm.

"No, thank you. I'm rather pressed for time."

"Just a quick cuppa then." Moll said and walked off.

"No, really, madam. I don't have time."

Severus followed her with an exasperated huff, through the door into the back of the house, and gawped. The kitchen was as flowery as the sitting room. Pink, blue, and yellow buds bloomed everywhere: on the curtains, on the towels, on the pot holders, and even on the burner covers on top of the stove.

Moll turned around with a flower decorated teapot in hand.

"Sit," she said, pointing to a white kitchen chair tucked against a square table.

Severus gnashed his teeth. He pulled out the chair - the seat cushion was embroidered with pink blossoms - and sat down, balancing the toddler awkwardly on his arm as he dropped the bag off his shoulder onto the floor.

Moll poured them each a cup of tea, placed a flowery milk and sugar set between them, and sat down on the opposite side of the kitchen table. She poured milk into her tea, unperturbed that she was wearing a bathrobe and curlers while hosting her guest.

"Where's the fire then?" she asked.

Severus sighed.

"I have an unexpected appointment at 10 o'clock this morning, and I have no one to watch the child," he stated as a matter of fact.

"Oh, is tha' all?" Moll calmly took a sip of her tea.

"Of course, I will compensate you. How much-"

"Ah, pish-posh." Moll waved a hand. "I can think of better things for you to do than give me money." She pulled the lid off a flower encrusted porcelain bowl on the table and tilted the bowl towards him. "Biscuit?"

Severus got one whiff of ginger snaps and his stomach growled. He opened his mouth to decline but his stomach growled again.

"Thank you." He accepted one of the biscuits and pushed it into his mouth.

"How long will you be gone then?" Moll asked.

Severus shrugged and swallowed before he answered.

"I'm not certain. A few hours?"

If the Ministry of Magic decided to throw him into Azkaban, he might well never return. Severus tried not to entertain that possible outcome in his mind. If that ended up being the case, he would think of something.

"Aw'righ' then." Moll finished her cup of tea. "Give us the wee one and finish yer cuppa before you go." She clapped her hands and held her arms out across the table.

Severus handed him over with a sigh of relief and picked up his tea cup, intending to empty it as quickly as possible. Moll bounced the toddler on her lap, making cooing noises, as he grabbed one of her fingers in his tiny fist.

"Such a sweetie." She looked up with a besotted smile. "Wha's 'is name then?"

Severus stopped mid-sip and lowered the tea cup back to its saucer. It occurred to him that he hadn't bothered with a name at all so far. He quickly picked up the teacup again to take another sip and buy himself time. He remembered saying it was his cousin who dropped the child off. That solved the problem of the last name, but what to use for the given name? Harry was ordinary enough. Severus was certain there would soon be a rash of boys named Harry in honor of the so called hero. His nostrils flared in revulsion, and he placed the cup back in its saucer.

"Harold," he said. "Harold Prince."

"Ah, little Harry," said Moll with a smile.

"Harold," Severus repeated with a nasty glower.

Moll looked at him askance before she turned back to the boy.

"Harold," she said, wiggling her finger to shake his tiny hand. "It's a pleasure to make yer acquaintance, sir."

 

Severus returned to his house alone and took three steps into his sitting room before he spun on his heel and Disapparated with a soft pop. He reappeared behind an overflowing dumpster in an alley beside a pub in the middle of London. Near the dumpster stood a dilapidated red phone booth. Severus stepped inside the cramped cabin and picked up the receiver. He dialed 62442 and waited.

A crisp female voice filled the small space.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your full name and your business."

"Severus Snape," he said clearly. "I have a hearing in front of the Wizengamot at 10 a.m. today."

"Thank you," said the female voice. "Please retrieve your visitor badge and attach it to the front of your robe. The badge must be displayed at all times."

There was a metallic rattle as a silver badge dropped into the coin return bowl at the bottom of the telephone box. 'Severus Snape - Hearing' was written in curling letters in the center of the square badge. Severus pinned it to his chest as the female voice continued to speak.

"All visitors to the Ministry are required to check-in with the security desk in the Atrium. Prepare to be searched and to present your wand for registration.”

The floor beneath his feet rumbled, and the cabin sank below the street. Severus crossed his arms and scowled into the darkness, resisting the urge to cast Lumos and light up the cramped space while he waited to reach its destination.

The sudden appearance of golden light at his feet only intensified the scowl on his face. He squinted and waited for his eyes to adjust before he opened them again.

The door of the telephone booth sprang open and Severus stepped out. An enormous hall stretched ahead of him. Large, gilded fireplaces lined the walls on both sides; those on the left spat out more people every few seconds while those on the right took away a few here and there. The busy crowd only parted to move around an imposing fountain placed halfway down the hall. Beyond the throngs of people winked the diminutive shape of a reception desk. Severus took a deep breath and raised his chin. He took one large step, then another. Soon, he was cutting a narrow corridor through the crowd, his robes billowing behind him as he glided across the polished floors, making a beeline for the security desk at the far end of the atrium.  

He waited in line to submit himself to search and his wand to registration. Afterwards, he had thirty minutes to find the correct floor and room for his hearing. Following a nauseating lift ride up to Level 2 and the Wizengamot Adminstration Services, he had to reverse course and head back down to Level 10 for the hearing in Courtroom 10. Severus arrived just in time.

His breath caught in his throat when he stepped into the room. Hundreds of judging eyes glared down at him from the stands.

The Chief Warlock banged the gavel and everyone fell silent. He was a thin man with a toothbrush mustache, a beady-eyed stare, and a sharp, unpleasant voice.

"We are gathered to hear the case of Severus Snape, potion-maker, and suspected Death Eater. We will examine the defendant's testimony and hear one character witness on behalf of the defendant."

Severus stood as still as possible, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared down the judges. A trickle of cold sweat slid down his spine as the Chief Warlock pointed the gavel in his direction.

"Severus Snape, step forward and take your seat."

In the middle of the room stood a single chair; thick iron chains hung over its arms.

The moment Severus sat down, the chains sprang to life and wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulders, binding him and shackling his arms to the arms of the chair.

Everything after that was a blur.

They asked him questions and he answered them. When Albus Dumbledore stepped down from the stands and took the floor, Severus was certain it was over. He couldn't hear the old man's words over the rapid drum of his own heartbeat, but Dumbledore's stare rested on him like a led weight.

The gavel banged again and brought back Severus's ability to hear.

"Severus Snape," said the Chief Warlock. "Owing to the weight of the testimony on your behalf by Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, Supreme Mugwump, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, we hereby decree that you are cleared of all charges. This hearing is adjourned."

The chains fell away from Severus, but he was still unable to move. As everyone else cleared out of the room, Severus stayed behind.

A hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his stupor.

"It's over, Severus."

Albus Dumbledore stood behind the chair, looking down on him.

Severus brushed the gnarly hand off his shoulder and rose quickly, gathering his robes around him as he crossed his arms.

"Yes, thank you." He searched for an appropriate way to address the man in front of him and failed to find it.

"Now that this matter is settled," said Dumbledore. "I expect you will accept my offer." 

It wasn't a question. The arrogance of the old man's statement raised Severus's hackles. He had not even thought about the offer since Dumbledore had made it on that fateful afternoon one month ago. Severus remembered sitting in the headmaster's office, crying like a child, while Dumbledore continued to scheme over his bowed head.

He must have paused too long, because Dumbledore was regarding him with a doubtful wrinkle in his bushy brows.

"The position at Hogwarts," he said insistently, "as the new Potions Master."

"Actually," Severus said, "I have to decline your generous offer." A nasty smile curled his lips as he lifted his head. "I'm afraid I have made other commitments in the meantime. Of course, I will be at your service should the need arise at Hogwarts in the future, regarding a certain person, as we had discussed."

Severus tried to keep his mind blank as he met the intense blue gaze of his former headmaster. Dumbledore's face tensed for a long moment then relaxed as he fell back a step.

"I understand," he said blankly, but his eyes had begun to sparkle behind their crescent spectacles.

Severus nodded and stepped around the old man with a curt, "Good day."

Dumbledore's voice stopped him at the doors leading out of the courtroom.

"I will call on you when the need arises."

Severus didn't bother to respond before he stepped outside and closed the doors firmly behind him.

 

Six years later, Severus had all but forgotten about Albus Dumbledore and their conversation in courtroom 10. The last house on Spinner's End had changed over the years; except the tiny sitting room remained exactly the same. The baby bottles and paraphernalia had disappeared from the kitchen counter, making room for more potions equipment. The permanent basket of clean laundry in the corner of the master bedroom had eventually emptied and disappeared. The hamper in the bathroom was no longer overflowing. In the small back bedroom, the changing table had been promoted back to writing desk, and the crib had transformed into a loft bed, providing space for toys and books underneath it.

At the moment, Harold Prince was sound asleep on the bed, curled up under a soft comforter, but not for long. His Uncle Severus stepped over the threshold and rapped his knuckles on the door.

"Wake up, Harold. It's time to get up."

"Hm's Saturday," mumbled Harold as he turned over in bed.

"It's half past eight," said his uncle, "and I have to go to Diagon Alley. Breakfast is ready. Up."

Harold gave another unintelligible mumble.

"Now," said Uncle Severus, and with a flick of his wand, the blanket over Harold's head whooshed up into the air, folded itself, and landed neatly at the foot of the bed. "And wash your face before you come downstairs."

Harold grumbled to himself and climbed out of his warm bed down the five steps of the ladder to the floor. He rounded the corner into the bathroom and splashed some water in his face before he looked up into the mirror above the sink. A pale boy with messy black hair and bottle green eyes stared back at him. He brushed his hair out of his face and checked his forehead. The scar was starting to appear again. Harold opened the jar next to the soap and smeared a generous glob of lime colored salve across his forehead. The lightning bolt disappeared.

There was a bang and a clatter from below his feet, followed by the bellow of Uncle Severus's voice.

"Harold. Get down here. The Euphoria Elixir needs to go back on the burner in five minutes and ... twenty-seven seconds."

"Coming!" Harold yelled as he bounded down the stairs.

He used the armchair at the bottom to stop his momentum and turned to zoom around the corner into the kitchen. The main purpose of the kitchen was as a potions laboratory for Uncle Severus's work. Cauldrons covered nearly every counter and bubbled on three out of the four burners on the stove all night and day.

Harold picked up the plate and fork from the counter next to the stove and held it out for Uncle Severus to transfer the sausage and eggs onto. Then he dashed to the kitchen table and set the plate down next to a tall glass of orange juice his uncle had put there for him.

"Where are you going in Diagon Alley?" Harold asked as he sat down to dig into his breakfast.

Uncle Severus transferred the empty pans into the sink and changed the temperature on the burners before he answered.

"I have to stop by the Apothecary to pick up supplies and drop off the Pimple Vanisher at Madam Primpernelle's." He stirred a potion on the back burner clockwise twice before he turned around and looked at Harold with a raised brow. "Why are you asking?"

Harold poked his eggs and pushed a sausage from one side of the plate to the other.

"Can I come?" he asked quietly.

"Why?" The suspicious look on Uncle Severus's face intensified.

Harold sighed. He did not want to start a fight, but his uncle somehow always knew when he wasn't telling the truth, so lying was not an option.

"There is just something I want to see there."

Uncle Severus pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes into thin slits.

"Would you care to be more specific?" he asked in a silky smooth tone.

Harold cringed. He had hoped he would get away with being vague. He should have known better. To stall for time, Harold took a bite of sausage and chewed on it as slowly as he could.

"Harold?"

His uncle's voice was even smoother than before. That was a very bad sign. Harold dropped his fork and spilled the truth in a rush.

"Yesterday, in the Daily Prophet it said they have the original Oakshaft 79 that Jocunda Sykes used to cross the Atlantic at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and they haven't had it out in public for 50 years, and it's the original broomstick with the crack in the handle from the thunderstorm, and it's only going to be there this weekend, and I'll never get the chance to see it again if I don't see it now, so can I please, please come and see it, Uncle Severus. Please? I promise I won't touch a thing, and I won't ask to buy anything, and I won't say a word about Quidditch, just please, Uncle Severus, please?"

Harold watched as a muscle under his uncle's eye twitched and Uncle Severus turned back to the stove without saying a word. He stirred the cauldron on the second back burner very slowly counterclockwise seven times. Then he picked up a pewter cauldron from the counter - the Euphoria Elixir - and placed it on the right front burner, still without saying anything.

Harold's heart sank. Anything to do with broomsticks or Quidditch was a sore subject. From the moment Harold had discovered the sport when he had first learned how to read last year, Uncle Severus had made it very clear how much he hated the idea of Harold having anything to do with it. Harold couldn't even say what bothered Uncle Severus the most: that it involved flying on broomsticks at high speeds; or that the opposing teams would try to hit each other with heavy balls called Bludgers while they were trying to score goals with a smaller ball called a Quaffle; or that the first Seeker who caught the speedy little Snitch ball usually decided the outcome of the game. Uncle Severus just plain hated everything about Quidditch. They didn't even own a broom. Harold was well aware that he was asking for trouble, begging to see a broom in a Quidditch supply shop. But it was the original Oakshaft 79 from 1935 that Jocunda Sykes had used to cross the Atlantic Ocean on a broom for the first time ever.

"Uncle Severus?" Harold asked in a tiny voice.

His uncle stirred the Euphoria Elixir counterclockwise six times. He stuck his long, beak-shaped nose over the fumes of the potion and took a deep breath. Then he turned around with a blank expression on his face.

"There will be no more mention of Quidditch," Uncle Severus said coldly.

Harold hung his head.

"You will not touch anything," Uncle Severus continued. "And you will not ask to buy anything."

Harold's head snapped back up with a hopeful smile. His uncle's face was still blank, but the muscle under his eye was no longer twitching and it sounded like he was actually giving his permission.

"I promise," Harold said.  

"And we will spend no more than twenty minutes in that infernal shop." Uncle Severus finished with a sneer.

"I promise!" Harold said again. "Thank you, Uncle Severus."

 

The crowd inside Quality Quidditch Supplies was packed so tightly, they had to wait in line for twenty-five minutes to get close enough to see the broom. Uncle Severus had to shield Harold several times from an overzealous witch or wizard who nearly barreled him over in their haste to take a picture of the famous historical broom. Harold wished he hadn't promised not to ask for anything. They were selling pictures with the broom for one Galleon each. The broom was magnificent. Even though it was over fifty years old, the thick oak handle was polished to a gleam, and the thin crack in the side of the shaft was barely visible. They said any other broom would have broken in half during the storm that Jocunda Sykes encountered just before she reached the American coastline. Harold got as close to the broom as the glass case allowed.

"It's beautiful, isn't it, Uncle Severus?" Harold glanced over his shoulder with a smile.

His uncle scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, using his pointy elbows to keep people from pressing too close.

A beautiful, young witch in bright yellow robes stepped up beside Harold and held up a big, magical camera as she bent down to him with a beaming smile.

"Would you like to have your picture taken?" she asked. "Only one Galleon each."

His face fell, but he shook his head, glancing at his uncle before he looked back at the witch and politely said, "No, thank you."

"That's a shame," the witch said, glancing to the side as well. "You might not get the chance again."

"Oh for--" Uncle Severus pulled a gold coin from his pocket, his robes flapping like the wings of an angry bat. "You should be ashamed of yourself." He scowled at the camera witch as he handed her the Galleon. "Go ahead and take the ruddy picture."

Harold was sure his face lit up like a Christmas tree as he turned to stand with his back to the broom. He smiled up at his uncle with wide eyes and held out his hand.

"You too?" he asked hopefully.

Uncle Severus stood very still for a moment, looking at him. It happened sometimes. His uncle would just stop and stare as if seeing something else and then shake off whatever it was and go back to normal.

With a loud sniff and a stiff nod, his uncle came out of it now and stepped behind him, placing one hand on Harold's shoulder. The witch took a few steps away from them and raised her camera.

"Ready?" she asked. "Smile!"

There was a small bang and a big puff of purple smoke as she took the picture. Then the witch handed Uncle Severus a slip of paper with a smile.

"Your picture will be ready for pick up at the QicPic Kiosk in an hour."   

He shoved the paper into his robes with a curt nod and ushered Harold through the crowd out of the shop. Harold felt like he was soaring on clouds. Not only had he seen the famous Oakshaft 79, his uncle had even got a picture of them in front of it, so he could remember it forever.

"Thank you so much, Uncle Severus."

A grunt was all the reply he received as his uncle pulled Harold along by the hand across the busy cobblestone street into the Apothecary.

The small shop smelled strongly like rotten eggs and spoilt cabbage. Harold pinched his nose shut and breathed through his mouth as he looked around. Wooden shelves from floor to ceiling were stuffed with glass jars, clay pots, and other containers full of dried herbs and roots, as well as animal parts, and bright powders of other potion ingredients. He recognized some of them from their kitchen at home. There was a great big barrel of newt eyes swimming in clear goop in the corner - five Knuts per scoop - and next to it a vat full of dragon liver on a bed of crushed ice - twelve Sickles per ounce. On a shelf high above sat the expensive ingredients made from unicorn parts like their horns and tail hairs and even a tiny little vial of silver unicorn blood, sealed inside a glass container behind a large gold sign that said "Do Not Touch!".

Uncle Severus led him away from the open barrels to the opposite side of the store where all kinds of feathers, claws, and fangs hung on strings from the ceiling. The shelves behind them were stacked with glass cases in different sizes, each with a gold name plate at the bottom. Some were filled with water, others with tree branches, and some had stones and sand in them. Inside each case was a different animal. Harold's eyes went wide as his uncle let go of his hand.

"Stay here, and don't touch anything," he said before he walked away to talk to the man behind the counter.

Harold nodded silently, engrossed by the movement of long, spindly legs as a spider the size of a potholder climbed out from behind a rock in one of the glass cases. When the spider stopped moving and just stared out into the shop with eight unblinking eyes, Harold moved on to look at the other cases. He was watching a chameleon in a sandbox change its color from green to red to purple to blue and back to green again when a low, hissing voice drew his attention.

"Bored," it said. "So bored."

The voice was muffled as if it came from a separate room. Harold looked around. His uncle was still talking to the man behind the counter going over a number of brown paper bags between them. No one else had come into the shop.

"So bored," said the voice again.

Something flopped over inside one of the glass cases to the left, and Harold quickly moved to see what it was.

A bright green snake with an egg-shaped head and black markings on its back had flopped over a branch and was letting its top half dangle upside down. The golden plate at the bottom of the case identified it as an African Boomslang.

"It's so boring I'll surely perish," hissed the voice.

Harold's eyes widened as he stared at the snake. He stepped closer to the case and lifted one hand to tap a finger on the glass when he remembered his uncle's warning, lowered his hand, and leaned as close to the glass as he could.

"Excuse me," he said in a low voice. "Did you say something?"

The snake lifted its head and drew closer. Its pointed snout almost touched the glass, and the thin line of its mouth looked as if it was smiling. 

"You speak Snake?" it hissed.

"I guess," he said. "You said you were bored."

"Yes, so boring! Nothing to see, nowhere to go. Only feed, shed, and sleep."

"That does sound boring. Have you always lived--"

A huge hand clapped over Harold's mouth. He jerked his head up and started to scream when he noticed the hand belonged to his Uncle Severus.

"Allergies," his uncle said. "I apologize. It must be the feathers making him sneeze." He whipped a handkerchief from his robes and pushed it over Harold's face. "Blow your nose, Harold."

As he dutifully blew his nose, even though he didn't have any reason to do so, he saw that the man behind the counter was looking at them with a strange expression on his wrinkled face. It almost looked like the man was frightened of Harold.

Uncle Severus took the handkerchief back with a sneer of disgust and pulled out his wand to Vanish the little bit of snot Harold had managed to blow out before he pushed the folded kerchief back into his robes. 

"I think we are finished for today. I will have the Regeneration Potion and a batch of Wolfsbane Potion ready before the end of the month," he said as he picked up the bags from the counter and returned to Harold's side. "Good day, sir."

Uncle Severus grabbed his hand and all but dragged him out of the Apothecary.

"Come back soon!" hissed the snake.

It was the last thing he heard before the door slammed shut with a clatter. 


	3. The Letter from Hogwarts

Uncle Severus didn't say another word as he pulled Harold along into Madame Primpernelle's to drop off the pimple removing potion. He almost ran right past the QicPic Kiosk on their way back to the fireplace that would take them home. As it was, he slapped down the piece of paper, snatched the envelope from the hand of the witch behind the counter and strode off with Harold in tow before she could so much as wish them a good day.

Harold was terrified. He had no idea why, but his uncle was angrier than he had ever seen in his whole life. Tears started to fall down Harold's face as Uncle Severus smashed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, dragged him along into the green flames and bellowed "Spinner's End."

When they stepped back out of the Floo network through the broken fireplace in the abandoned house across the street from their home, his uncle kept going at a fast pace and didn't stop until they were standing in the middle of their sitting room with the door closed behind them and locked with two Locking Charms for good measure. Then Uncle Severus whirled around, dropped into a crouch, and grabbed Harold by the shoulders.

"Stop crying," he said impatiently.

"I-I'm sorry."

Harold tried, but he only cried harder. He had no idea why his uncle was so angry with him. He hadn't touched anything in the Apothecary and he hadn't said a word about Quidditch. Uncle Severus pulled out his handkerchief and wiped Harold's face while his other hand patted awkwardly at Harold's shoulder.

"It's alright," he said stiffly. "I'm not angry at you." He sounded very angry. "But what you did was dangerous."

Harold sniffled and blew his nose on the handkerchief in earnest. Then he looked up at his uncle with eyes still blurry from crying.

"What did I do?"

Uncle Severus curled his lips at the soggy piece of cloth and Vanished the whole thing with a flick of his wand before he answered.

"The snake," he said, "in the Apothecary. You talked to it in Parseltongue."

"So?" Harold sniffled. "We didn't say anything bad, it was just bored."

"It's not about the subject of your conversation, Harold," his uncle said, slipping his wand back into his robes. "Parseltongue is a very rare skill among us wizards, and the last person who spoke it was a very bad man."

"Oh," said Harold. "Who was he?"

His uncle's face crumpled and he heaved a big sigh.

"That is a long and painful conversation," he said. "And I don't think you're old enough for it, so just promise me you will not talk to any snakes again. Just pretend you can't hear them if they say anything in front of you." He stood up, crossed the few steps to the armchair in front of the staircase, collapsed onto its threadbare seat, and closed his eyes.

Harold watched quietly, wondering if he should just go up to his room and play by himself. It was what he usually did when Uncle Severus was in a foul mood. But something kept nagging at him to find out more about the bad man who could also speak to snakes.

As he looked around, searching for a way to bring up the subject, Harold noticed that his uncle had dropped their purchases in the middle of the floor. He quietly picked up the brown paper bags and carried them into the kitchen. After setting them on the counter, he crawled under the kitchen table to pull out a two step footstool; it was there so Harold could boost himself up over the sink and reach the top cabinets when it was his turn to do the dishes. Now he set the footstool in front of the tall potions cabinet in the corner. He retrieved the hidden key from the bottom of the flour pot on the counter by the sink, unlocked the large padlock that linked the two handles of the cabinet doors together, and put the padlock on the counter before he opened both doors.

His mouth fell open as Harold gazed up at his uncle's stock of potions ingredients. There were twelve shelves from top to bottom. On each shelve sat ten identical glass jars from left to right, and the shelves could be pulled out to reveal more jars behind the first row. Each jar was labeled with the name of the potion ingredient in big block letters, sorted in alphabetical order, starting with A and B on the top shelf all the way down to the bottom shelf with ingredients beginning with X, Y, and Z.

Harold nodded to himself and pushed the footstool closer to the cabinet. Then he went back to the counter to take their purchases out of the brown bags. He had watched Uncle Severus refill his ingredients loads of times, and his uncle always started by taking out the containers from the brown paper bags and placing them on the counter in alphabetical order. From start to finish there were six: a vial of liquid antimony, an envelope with belladonna seeds, three bezoars, eight ounces of Billywig slime, two dozen dittany sprigs, and half a pound of goosegrass.

Harold stepped back in front of the cabinet to look for the matching jars on the shelves. Bezoars and goosegrass were the only ones he could find among the front rows. Harold sighed and clambered onto the stepstool to take down the jar of Bezoars from the middle of the top shelf. He had to stretch to reach it but could just get his hands safely around the bottom of the square jar. Harold unhooked the lid and dropped the lumpy black stones from the counter into the jar where they joined the one bezoar that was already inside. He placed the jar back in its spot and then pulled the goosegrass out of the fourth shelf from the top, right in front of his face. There was only a small tuft of the yellow grass left inside the jar. Harold opened it, and stuffed the big lump of fresh goosegrass inside. It smelled like hay and tickled his nose. Once the jar was back in its place, Harold looked at the remaining ingredients on the counter. All except the dittany sprigs would be on the top shelf; all of them were in back rows. The footstool wasn't tall enough for him to reach; he needed to be higher up.

Harold chewed on his bottom lip as he tried to figure out the best way to get at the jars. The counter was too far away from the cabinet. The kitchen chairs were about the same height as the footstool, so they wouldn't get him there either. Harold looked around. Then it struck him! The kitchen table would work if he could get it close enough to the cabinet. He quickly cleared the table and moved the chairs out from under it then started to pull on the nearest leg. The table made a terrible racket as it scraped along the linoleum floor. Luckily, it didn't have far to go. Harold climbed up on top and stood up straight. The top shelf was now level with the tip of his nose. He slid it toward him and started to read off the jars that started with A: Aconite, Acromantula Venom, Adder's Fork, Agrippa, Alihotsy, Ammoniacum, Angel's Trumpet, Antimony (liquid). Harold lifted the jar with a smile.

"Accio!" Uncle Severus bellowed from the doorway.

The jar jumped out of Harold's grip and flew through the air into his uncle's outstretched hand.

"Merlin's beard, get down from there!" he shouted, pulling Harold off the kitchen table with one arm while setting the jar down on the table with his other hand. "What do you think you're doing?"

Harold wriggled out of the uncomfortable grip and stood up straight, raising his chin.

"I was just putting away the ingredients," he said defensively. "You left them on the floor. Normally, you always keep them locked up because its too dangerous to have them lying about."

"So you thought," his uncle said in a quiet, silky voice, "it was a good idea to pick them up and handle them without my supervision?"

Harold cringed. Looking at the top shelf hovering over the kitchen table, he realized it might not have been his smartest idea. Uncle Severus pushed the shelf back into the cabinet, picked up the jar of antimony again, pointed his wand at the kitchen table, and banished it against the wall. A second flick of his wand made the chairs and footstool scramble to their proper places as well.

"Sit down," he said, pointing at one of the chairs.

Harold hunched his shoulders and did as he was told. His uncle sat down on the opposite side of the table and placed the jar of antimony between them. The silvery white liquid sloshed gently inside the glass as he turned it so that the label faced Harold.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked silkily.

"It's antimony," Harold said dutifully. "You use it to make Vomiting Potion."

"And what is the state of matter for antimony at room temperature?"

Harold thought about it for a moment. He had no idea. The only form he'd ever seen it in was the shimmering liquid inside the jar.

"I don't know," he said quietly.

"It's a solid, silver-gray metalloid," Uncle Severus explained in the same silky voice, "and its melting point is at six hundred and thirty point six three degrees Celsius."

"Oh," said Harold.

"And what do you think would happen if you opened this jar?" asked Uncle Severus and continued, "Which has been secured with several charms - to keep the antimony in its liquid state, preserve the glass around it, and prevent the build-up of toxic fumes - all of which would be broken the moment you opened the jar without a wand?"

"Oh," said Harold again, his eyes widening as his mouth dropped open in realization.

If he had opened the jar without using magic to keep the charms in place, the glass would have exploded in his hands from the sudden heat of the liquid metal; and the antimony would have spilled everywhere, burning everything it touched, including Harold.

"Yes," said his uncle. "I didn't think I had raised a complete dunderhead."

"I'm so, so sorry, Uncle Severus." Harold wrung his hands as he looked at the jar on the table. It, and the rest of the jars in the potions cabinet, suddenly looked a lot more intimidating than before. How many other ingredients were in there that could seriously harm or even kill him?

"I touched the bezoars," Harold said quickly, "and the goosegrass. It smelled like hay. Am I going to be all right?"

Uncle Severus sighed. He picked up the jar of antimony, placed it back in the cabinet, closed the doors, and snapped the padlock shut around the handles. Then he slipped the key into a pocket inside his robes and turned back around.

"Harold, I think it's time for you to start learning about the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

Over the next three years, Harold learned to appreciate the beauty of softly simmering cauldrons and the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins; he learned how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death (at least in theory). He also learned how to ask his uncle about the things he wanted to know. It was a slow process, but Uncle Severus gradually opened up and told him about his mother ("the smartest, most beautiful witch in the world. You have her eyes."); his father ("mediocre, arrogant sod. A determined rule-breaker and a bully!"); and finally, after Harold had mastered the brewing of a difficult Regeneration Potion, he learned about the bad man who had killed his parents and given him the scar that Harold hid behind a thick glob of lime colored salve every other morning: the Dark Lord Voldemort. Being famous for something that had been done to him when he was a baby didn't sit right with Harold. He agreed with his uncle that changing his name and hiding his true identity was the right thing to do. He couldn't imagine shaking hands with people who thanked him for Lord Voldemort's demise when it was really his mother, Lily, who had paid the ultimate price to save Harry Potter and the Wizarding world.

Once Harold had shown sufficient proficiency in potions, his uncle had also started to teach him a small number of useful spells and charms, using a spoon for the necessary wand motions. One time, a particularly strong upward swish of the spoon coupled with a fervent incantation had accidentally blasted both of them across the sitting room in opposite directions. Harold had not been allowed to practice any more jinxes after that.

 

On a hot day in July, a week before Harold's eleventh birthday, a handsome tawny owl dropped a letter on their doorstep. The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and it had a purple wax seal on the back. Stamped into the seal was a coat of arms bearing the capital letter H in the center, surrounded by a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle. The address on the front was written in emerald-green ink:

          Mr. H. Potter  
          Back Bedroom  
          Last House on Spinner's End  
          Cokeworth

"Uncle Severus?"

Harold called out twice more, carrying the letter into the kitchen where his uncle was stooped over a large silver cauldron, stirring a potion counterclockwise. Uncle Severus held up one long, spindly finger to indicate he was concentrating, stirred the potion five more times, then pulled out the spoon, rested it beside the stove, and looked up.

"What is it?"

"It's this letter," Harold said, handing over the envelope. "It's addressed to Mr. H. Potter. Do you think we're in trouble?"

His uncle flipped the letter over in his hand and took a look at the wax seal on the back.

"Ah," he said. "No, I expected this. I'm surprised they're only sending it now. There's only a little more than a month left before school starts." Uncle Severus handed it back and motioned to the kitchen table. "Go ahead, open it. You can read it to me while I work."

Harold broke the seal with a quick jerk of his finger, unfolded the parchment, and sat down to read out loud.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First C--"

"You can skip that part."

His uncle placed a gold cauldron on the left front burner and started to fill it with rosewater. Harold nodded and skipped to the body of the letter.

"Dear Mr. Potter." He glanced at his uncle. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31. Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress." He looked up from the letter with eyes as big as saucers.

"What are we going to do?"

"Simple," said Uncle Severus. "I will write a letter to confirm you're attending, inform them about the name change, and then we will go to Diagon Alley to send the owl and buy the things you need for your first year of school."

He dropped four slimy eyes of newt into the rosewater and stirred it clockwise three times, then counterclockwise six times, before he added a pinch of crushed rosemary.

"Did they actually include the list?"

"Yep." Harold held up a second sheet of paper. "It's a pretty long list," he said, skimming over the items. "I've already got work robes, the winter cloak, and dragon hide gloves, but it says they have to have name tags, and they want me to get a pointed hat."

"They still have that on there?" Uncle Severus scoffed. "We almost never wore the hats even when I was in school. Waste of money." He dropped a chunk of shrivelfig into the potion and stirred it once clockwise. "Go on."

"The Standard Book of Spells Grade 1, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, and five more books for other subjects."

"Which one is required for potions?" Uncle Severus asked.

"Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger."

"Acceptable," he said with an audible sneer, "but hardly ideal. What else?"

Harold bent back over the list and quickly read the remainder of the requirements.

"Only a wand and a telescope. I've already got the pewter cauldron size two, the crystal phials, and the brass scales. It says I can bring an owl or a cat or a toad, but I don't know."

Harold grimaced, raising his head to see the same expression on his uncle's face. Neither of them particularly cared for the idea of a pet.

"We'll see," said Uncle Severus before he bent back over his potions. "Anything else?"

"Nothing, really."

There was no need to mention the note at the very bottom of the page, reminding parents that first years were not allowed to have their own broomsticks. His uncle would dress up in a lady's hat and purse before he ever bought Harold his own broomstick.

Uncle Severus turned off the back burner, placed a Stasis Charm on the potion in the large silver cauldron, and turned down the temperature under the gold cauldron in the front.

"I'll write the letter when this Beautifying Potion has finished simmering."

"All right," said Harold. "Anything I can do to help?"

"You can scrub those," Uncle Severus pointed a finger at the stack of crusty cauldrons in the sink, smirking at Harold's low, pained groan. "You asked."


	4. The Best Birthday Present

Forty-five minutes later, they arrived in Diagon Alley, dropped off their response to Hogwarts at the counter inside Eeylops Owl Emporium, and quickly left the smelly shop to duck into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions next door for the pointed hat. Afterward, they bought a collapsible brass telescope in the next shop over before heading across the street to Flourish and Blotts, the largest and best stocked magical bookshop in all of London.

Harold tried not to let his eyes wander two doors down to the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, but it was hopeless. One glimpse of the brand new Nimbus Two Thousand racing broom was enough, and he could no more resist stepping closer than a Cornish Pixie could resist grabbing on to a pair of protruding ears. 

"Harold!"

A strong grip on his neck pulled him in the other direction, as he glanced longingly back at the gleaming handle and smooth bristles. Flourish and Blotts was stuffed with people on both floors of the shop. Even though school books had their own special section, it took forever to find the eight books they needed for his first year at Hogwarts among the hundreds of other school books in all shapes and sizes lining the shelves from floor to ceiling. When they finally escaped with a full satchel and several Galleons lighter, Harold was ready to be done with shopping.

The only thing he could still feel excitement about was the idea that he would finally receive his very own wand today. It was the last remaining item on the list.

"All right," he said excitedly, "Ollivanders now?"  

Everyone knew that Ollivanders was the only place to buy a high quality, trustworthy wand. The famous store was located right next door to Flourish and Blotts. Below its name, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. was written in gold letters over the door, and displayed in the single dusty window was a gleaming wand on a faded purple cushion.

The moment they crossed the threshold into the narrow store, a bell chimed somewhere in the back. Harold took a deep breath and rubbed his hands in excitement as he looked up at the rows and rows of narrow boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. Each of those narrow boxes held a hand-crafted wand, and in one of those boxes waited his perfect match. He was too excited to sit down on the rickety chair. The sense of magic in the air was as tangible as the dust motes swirling in the beam of light coming from the window.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice.

Harold turned around and saw an old man with pale eyes walking towards them down a narrow corridor between wand boxes.

"Good afternoon. Mr. Ollivander?" Harold said hopefully.

"Yes." said the man. "And who might you be?" He peered into Harold's face, rubbing his unblinking eyes a few times before he shook his head.

"Harold Prince, sir."

"Prince you say?" A pair of thick brows beetled over the luminous eyes. "The last Prince I remember was a long time ago. Fir, nine and three quarter inches, flexible," he muttered to himself then raised his head and looked up over Harold's shoulder. "I remember you. Ebony, thirteen and a half inches, sturdy as a rock."

Uncle Severus nodded stiffly. Mr. Ollivander hummed, waggled his head, and reached for something in his pocket.

"Let's get started, shall we?" he asked and unrolled a long tape measure with a flick of his wrist. "Your wand-arm?"

"The right," said Harold, holding out his right arm.

He tried to stand still for the measuring, but it was difficult to do when all he wanted was to try out different wands. Wand-lore was not something they had talked about much, but Harold was sure his would be flexible, and out of the three possible core materials, he was most likely to get a dragon heartstring like his uncle; phoenix tails were too rare of a thing, and unicorn hair was for girls and wusses.

Mr. Ollivander left the tape measure to its work somewhere around Harold's nose and disappeared into the stacks of shelves, taking out boxes here and there. Harold glanced up at his uncle with a big grin, nearly vibrating with excitement. Any second now, he would get to try his first wand.

"That'll do," said Mr. Ollivander when he returned. The tape measure dropped to the floor like a lifeless snake as he opened a box with a pale cream wand inside. "Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible."

Harold picked up the wand and gave it a practiced 'swish-and-flick', but nothing happened. He placed it back into the box with a disappointed pout. Mr. Ollivander opened another box with an even paler off-white wand inside.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try it."

Harold picked it up, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it back almost immediately and snapped the lid shut.

"No."

Wand after wand, it was the same result. They tried ebony, and fir, and even one beautiful blackthorn wand with a spiral tip, but nothing seemed to work. Harold was beginning to worry he was a Squib, but he reminded himself that he had been brewing potions with his uncle since he was seven, and there had been that one blast of accidental magic with the spoon last year, and no Squib had ever been invited to Hogwarts. Mr. Ollivander also didn't seem worried by their momentary lack of success as he kept piling up box after box, placing the failed attempts on the rickety chair beside them. 

Uncle Severus was hovering in the corner with his eyes closed and his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking like a sleeping bat who had forgotten how to hang upside down.

"Tricky customer, eh?" Mr. Ollivander bustled off to pull yet another box from a shelf high up. "How about this?" He returned to Harold and revealed a wand in a warm brown color with a sturdy handle and a straight, narrow tip.

"Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple."

Harold could feel the warmth as his fingers touched the wood for the first time. A smile lit up his face as he pulled the wand from its box and gave it just a small swivel. Red and gold sparks shot from the end and lit up the dust motes in the air, making them rain down in shimmering spots of light.

"Yes!" He shouted with glee as he whirled around to his uncle, and Mr. Ollivander cried, "Bravo!"

Uncle Severus startled, his eyes snapping open with a baleful glare as he glanced around the shop.

"You have finally found your match?"

"Yes," said Harold with a nod, unwilling to let go of his wand, not even to place it back in the box that came with it. Mr. Ollivander closed the lid with a smile.

"And a most curious match, indeed," he said as he handed the empty box to Harold.

"How so?" asked Harold with a frown, worried that he had been chosen by a particularly fickle type of wand.

Mr. Ollivander stared back at him with unblinking eyes.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Prince. Every single wand. It just so happens that the phoenix feather inside your wand has a very famous twin. I remember it well: yew, thirteen and a half inches, and rigid as bone. You-Know-Who--"

"That's enough." Uncle Severus interrupted with a scowl. "There is no need to fill the boy's head with useless gossip. How much for the wand?"

Mr. Ollivander blinked owlishly and released a longsuffering sigh.

"Seven Galleons," he said.

They paid for the wand and as Mr. Ollivander bowed them out of the shop, Harold could swear he heard the old man click his tongue and mutter under his breath, "Ebony and dragon heartstring. Temper, temper."

Outside, Harold pushed his wand into the sleeve of his robes the same way his uncle did, but it kept sliding back out. Confused, he looked up for help with an irritated huff.

"How?"

"Hooking charm." Uncle Severus flapped back his sleeve and revealed the long, dark wand held magically in place by loops of fabric in three places. "It only releases the wand at a specific hand signal." He touched the tips of his right ring finger and thumb together and curled his forefinger. The fabric loops disappeared and the wand dropped into the outstretched palm of his opposite hand. When he touched the wand to the same spot on the fabric, the loops reappeared and closed snugly around it. Uncle Severus lowered his sleeve and repeated the signal with his arm hanging loosely at his side. The wand slipped neatly into the waiting cradle of his fingers.

"It requires practice, so don't bother asking," he said coldly, snatched the empty box from under Harold's arm, and opened the lid. "In with it."

Trying to hide his disappointment, Harold surrendered the wand and watched the narrow box disappear inside his book satchel.

"Can we go home now?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"Almost," his uncle replied, "I want to get a few things from the Apothecary while we're here."

Harold groaned but obediently trudged across the street behind Uncle Severus, who stopped right in front of the entrance and whirled around with a flutter of black robes.

"Remember: no unnecessary talking."

Without waiting for a response, he turned again and entered the shop.

Breathing through his mouth to avoid the rank smell, Harold followed him inside and focused on the wall to the right. Nothing had changed since his first visit three years ago. The items sat on their shelves in the same places as before with the expensive ingredients on the highest shelves. The locked container with the unicorn blood seemed a little closer, but it was still well out of reach above his head. He busied himself counting newt eyes in the barrel while Uncle Severus talked to the old man behind the counter.

"Is it you?" a muffled voice hissed from behind him. "It is you!"

Harold closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists to stop himself from turning around.

"Friend!" hissed the voice. "Snake-speaker! Over here!"

He gritted his teeth and shook his head very slowly.

"Come here! It's been so long. So boring. Have you been well?"

He bit his tongue and shook his head again.

"What's wrong? Are you sick? Can't you hear me? Hello!"

Thud.

"Hello?"

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Harold glanced over his shoulder and his eyes widened. On the other side of the room, inside the case, the snake was banging its snout against the glass. He shook his head and waved his hand, then quickly looked over at the counter to make sure he hadn't been noticed.

"Speak to me!"

The snake banged its snout again and the man behind the counter looked up with a puzzled expression on his face. Acting quickly, Harold coughed into his hand and looked up with an apologetic shrug. The man went back to his conversation with Uncle Severus.

Thud.

"Speak to me, please!" the snake hissed desperately. "So bored. So lonely."

Harold couldn't bear it any longer.

"Uncle Severus!"

His uncle turned around with a nasty glower, disgruntled by the rude interruption.

"What is it?"

The snake continued to bang its nose against the glass, shaking its egg-shaped head after every other thud. Harold threw a desperate glance in the direction of the animal cases before he answered.

"Can I talk to you? Over here? About ... something." He beckoned with his hand and stepped in front of the shelves with the dry potions ingredients, pretending he saw something really interesting. The snake continued to hiss behind his back.

"What's wrong? Why won't you speak to me? Please."

Harold cringed. Uncle Severus appeared next to him and crossed his arms, black eyes glittering menacingly.

"What's the matter with you?"

Harold ducked his head, fingering a small case of powdered asphodel on the shelf in front of him.

"The snake won't stop talking to me," he said in a low voice.

"What?"

At odds with the sharp tone of his question, his uncle calmly picked up the asphodel, lifted the pot to his large nose, and inspected it thoroughly as he continued speaking in a voice so low and silky that it was barely audible.

"Ignore it, I'm almost done."

Thud. Thud.

"Stop ignoring me!"

Thud. Thud. Thud.

"It keeps banging its nose against the glass," Harold whispered at the same time the man behind the counter yelled, "What in Merlin's name is making that racket?"

The Apothecary stepped out from behind the counter and walked over to the wall with the animal cases.

"Oh, it's you," he said as he rapped his knuckles against the case. "Quit it. I just fed you yesterday."

The snake hissed and struck, banging its nose against the glass.

"Stupid man," it hissed. "Skin-thief! Feeds me half-dead mice and takes my skin!"

The Apothecary turned around with an apologetic shrug.

"This one's always been a bit strange. Never mind it."

"Skin-thief!" the snake hissed again then turned to Harold. "Snake-speaker, friend, please, don't leave me with him. Please, set me free."

He didn't know what to do. How was he supposed to set the snake free? Neither the Apothecary nor his uncle would just let him pull it out of the case and set it on the floor. It wasn't even native to England! But he couldn't explain that to the snake, either, since he wasn't allowed to speak Parseltongue. The snake was still staring at Harold with its big round eyes.

"Please," it hissed plaintively.

Harold chewed on his bottom lip and hung his head.

"If it wasn't for the skin," said the Apothecary as he walked back behind the counter, "I would have gotten rid of it years ago."

Harold's head snapped back up, an idea shaping in his mind.

"Can we buy it?" He looked up at his uncle with wide eyes, hope swelling in his chest as he saw the way out. "Please, Uncle Severus, will you buy it for me?"

"Have you gone mad?"

"No, it's perfect," he said. "It can be my familiar at school."

Uncle Severus placed the asphodel back on the shelf with a loud clang.

"The letter specified an owl or a cat or a toad. It said nothing about snakes."

"But, but ..." Harold looked around wildly. He needed to convince his uncle to buy the snake so they could take it home with them. "It's a boomslang! You'd never have to buy boomslang skin for your potions again!"

His suggestion was rewarded with a withering glare.

"One snake hardly produces enough shed for all the potions that require it on a near daily basis. Be reasonable, Harold."

"But!" There was nothing else he could think of. No reasonable explanation for why he so badly wanted to buy the snake.

"No more buts, Harold."

"But it's my birthday next week!" he shouted desperately.

Uncle Severus stopped and blinked. A sneer slowly formed on his thin lips as he glanced over at the wall with the animal cases and then back at Harold.

"You want that," he said, pointing one long forefinger at the snake across the room, "as your birthday present?"

"Yes."

Ever since he was four, Harold got to decide on one big birthday present each year. It was a tradition, and there was no arguing with tradition.

Uncle Severus heaved a sigh.

"Very well." His eyes narrowed as he pointed the same long forefinger at Harold's nose. "You will be personally responsible to feed it, clean its case, harvest the skin, and do anything else that comes with caring for this animal."

"Of course, Uncle Severus." Harold smiled and nodded his head.

His uncle rolled his eyes and walked over to join the Apothecary at the counter.

"How much for the snake?"

"Uh, I don't know," said the old man, scratching his head. "Tell you what. You add a couple unicorn horns to your purchase, and I'll throw the boomslang in for free." 

"A couple..." Uncle Severus trailed off and muttered a nasty comment under his breath. Harold looked up at the shelf with the unicorn ingredients. The horns were twenty-one Galleons each, almost as much as they had paid for all his school books together.

His uncle grudgingly spilled a small pile of the golden coins onto the counter and Harold got to leave the Apothecary carrying the boomslang case in both arms. The snake was wrapped tightly around the branch inside, hissing merrily as they walked down the street.

"Thank you, friend!"

Since he wasn't allowed to talk back, Harold smiled and nodded in answer.

Back at home, he placed the case on his writing desk and sat down in front of it. The snake was still wrapped around the branch, staring back at him with big, round eyes.

"I'm sorry I couldn't talk to you earlier," he said.

"Oh," the snake hissed. "He speaks."

"I'm not allowed to speak Parseltongue where anyone can hear me," Harold explained. "But we can talk now that we're home. What's your name?"

"Snake," hissed the snake.

"No," said Harold, snickering. "That's what you are. Like me, I'm a wizard but I have a name. People call me Harold. What do they call you?"  

"Snake," hissed the snake. "And sometimes they call me Aaaah!"

Harold snickered again, imagining someone being startled into a shout at the sight of the bright green snake with its big black eyes. 

"Is there a name you like?" he asked.

"Snake?" The snake raised and lowered its head in a shrug.

"Hm," said Harold, looking around the room for inspiration. The letter from Hogwarts sat on his desk with the school's seal at the top of the stationary.

"Oh, I know!" he said with a grin. "How do you like Salazar?"

"Salazar," hissed the snake.

"He was a really famous wizard," said Harold. "He was one of the four people who founded the school we'll be going to in about a month."

"Salazar," hissed the snake again. "I like it."

 

A few days later, Harold was reading out loud to Salazar out of A History of Magic when Uncle Severus stepped across the threshold, rapping his knuckles on the open door.

"I just received a summons from Hogwarts," he said. "It appears Headmaster Dumbledore would like to see me immediately."

"Oh," said Harold, marking his place in the book before he set it down. "Do you want me to go over to Moll's?"

His uncle shook his head.

"No, actually. I would like you to come with me."

"To Hogwarts? But school's not for another three weeks," Harold protested.

There was a soft tap, tap as Salazar poked his nose against the glass of his case.

"What's going on?" he hissed.

"My uncle wants to take me to Hogwarts to meet the headmaster," Harold answered in Parseltongue.

A shudder rocked through Uncle Severus and he scowled at Harold with a nasty sneer.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't use that language in front of me."

"Sorry," said Harold quickly.

"In any case," his uncle said quietly, "I want you there with me, so get ready. Wear a pair of sturdy shoes. I can only Apparate us as far as Hogsmeade, and we'll have to walk from there."

Ten minutes later, Uncle Severus took a firm hold of Harold's hand and used side-along Apparition to move them from their sitting room on Spinner's End to the Welcome sign at the edge of the village of Hogsmeade in the blink of an eye. They walked in silence along the winding road. Up ahead, Harold could see a great stone castle sitting on a rocky cliff. They stepped through a gate flanked by two giant boar statues onto the grounds, entered the castle through a thick oak door, and walked up a wide marble staircase, careful not to fall as the stairs changed direction, then down a wide stone corridor with portraits on both sides. Harold waved at the people inside the portraits as they passed by; the only one who waved back was a middle aged man in a dark suit with a huge bald spot and two bushy tufts of hair sticking out from behind his ears.

His uncle stopped in front of a big gargoyle statue and muttered, "Sherbet Lemon."

The ugly gargoyle moved aside as the wall behind it opened, revealing a revolving spiral staircase. Uncle Severus grabbed Harold's hand and hopped up onto the lowest step, pulling him along. They rose slowly upwards as the wall closed behind them until they reached the top of the staircase. There was a thick oak door, and in the center of it a gleaming brass knocker shaped like a griffin. His uncle rapped the knocker against the striking plate twice in quick succession.

"Don't speak, unless you're spoken to," he said in a hushed tone.

Harold nodded and tightened his grip on his uncle's hand as the door in front of them gradually swung open. They stepped inside a large circular room full of gizmos and gadgets that were producing a constant buzzing racket. Things whirred and puffed on small tables in all corners as the low snores of portraits of old men and women drifted down from the walls. An enormous desk with claw shaped feet sat in the middle of the room and behind it, a shelf filled with books, and knick-knacks, and an old pointed hat with a big gash above its brim.

Someone cleared their throat.

Harold and his uncle whirled around to look for the source of the noise.

Behind the door stood a tall, thin man in purple robes with a long silver beard and twinkling blue eyes that looked at the world through a pair of half-moon spectacles. Next to the man was a golden perch with a beautiful red bird on it. Uncle Severus stood up straighter.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," he said. "You wanted to see me."

"Indeed, Severus," said Dumbledore. "Though I had asked to see you alone." The old man leaned down with a dotty grin on his face. "And you must be Harry."

"It's Harold."

The reaction was automatic whenever somebody tried to shorten his name. It was too dangerous to allow it. Someone might accidentally reveal his true identity that way. And Uncle Severus didn't like it, almost as much as he didn't like Quidditch. Harold glanced up and knew he wasn't in trouble for correcting Dumbledore when he saw a small smirk on his uncle's face.

"I see," said Dumbledore. "Well, Harold, why don't you go and have a look around while I talk to your Uncle ... Severus?" He placed a strange pause between the two words.

Harold looked up for confirmation, not willing to go anywhere until his uncle allowed it.

"Go on, and don't--"

"Don't touch anything," he finished the sentence with a nod. "Got it."

Watching the two adults from the corner of his eyes, he walked over to the whirring gizmos and gadgets. He had no idea what most of them did, but it looked like quite a few were just silly novelties with no other purpose than to sit around and look pretty. Nothing of the sort would ever find a place in their home on Spinner's End, but maybe their neighbor Moll would like a spinning-silver-hoops-thing with little birds and flowers on it like the one he was looking at. He wondered if one could buy them in the village of Hogsmeade or perhaps somewhere along Diagon Alley.

The movement of Dumbledore twirling his wand through the air caught Harold's attention. He could still see both of them sitting on opposite sides of the heavy desk, but Dumbledore's lips were moving, yet Harold couldn't hear a word the old man was saying. He started to run toward them until his uncle raised one hand, pointed a long, spindly forefinger up in the air and wagged it slowly from left to right.

Understanding that he was supposed to stay back, Harold nodded and returned to the whirring gadgets in the corner. He still kept his eye on the adults, trying to guess what they were talking about from the way they moved and the expressions on their faces. It was a hopeless attempt. Harold gave up after five minutes when he realized he could only read his uncle's expressions. Dumbledore seemed to be incapable of anything other than a dotty smile and twinkling eyes, and the fact that Uncle Severus was angry but in control of his temper didn't give Harold the slightest idea what the two might be talking about. Several long minutes later, Dumbledore raised his wand again and swirled it around the air.

"I trust you will honor our agreement?" he asked.

"Of course, headmaster," said Uncle Severus.

"Then I will see you on the first."

"Yes. Have a good day, headmaster." His uncle got up from his chair, crossed the room, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Say goodbye, Harold."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Harold," said Dumbledore. "I look forward to seeing you at the start of term."

Uncle Severus all but shooed Harold down the moving spiral staircase and out of the castle.

Once they were back on the winding road into Hogsmeade, Harold couldn't hold back any longer. He was bursting with curiosity.

"What did Dumbledore say?" he asked, skipping sideways to keep up with his uncle who was taking quick, long strides toward the village, robes billowing behind him.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

Harold stopped skipping and pouted then ran to catch up with his uncle.

"But what did he mean; he'll see you on the first?"

Uncle Severus stopped abruptly and glared down at him. A summer breeze blew through the trees. It ruffled Harold's messy curls but left them looking much the same, while his uncle had to pull long, oily strands of hair back from his face.

"He means that he will see me on the first of September when the first term starts."  

"But why?" Harold asked.

"Because, Harold, I have been made the new potions master at Hogwarts."

"Really?"

Uncle Severus didn't respond. He turned and kept walking in determined, long strides.

"Keep up, Harold."

Jolting into motion, he ran after his uncle with a big grin on his face. If Uncle Severus would start to teach at Hogwarts, it meant they wouldn't have to say goodbye for three months when the school year started. It also meant Harold could take Salazar along without having to hide him, because surely the restriction on familiars did not apply to teachers. If it was really true that his uncle was starting to teach at Hogwarts at the same time that Harold would start his first year as a student, then Albus Dumbledore had just given him the best birthday present this year.


	5. The Hogwarts Express

The next three weeks flew by. Harold went through most of his school books, reading whole chapters to Salazar whenever the snake dangled upside down from his branch, complaining about boredom. Once a week, Harold would go out to catch small frogs by the river and bring them back for his snake to eat. Uncle Severus taught him a darning spell that sewed Harold's name into the collar of his work robes and winter cloak in curly silver letters. They purchased two brand new travel trunks, and Harold kept his in front of the shelf under his loft bed. All of his school supplies were packed inside the big, rectangular compartment at the bottom; his wand was tucked safely inside its narrow box and stowed in the shallow tray at the top, along with a few other personal things.

On the last Saturday before school, they visited Moll for afternoon tea ("a brew and butty") and to say goodbye. When they arrived, a silver plate with cheese sandwiches and a flowery tea set were waiting for them on the curly-legged coffee table in her small sitting room. Uncle Severus and Harold sat in the squishy armchairs while Moll made herself comfortable on the sofa with her cane leaned next to her against the seat. She did not look too keen on the idea of Harold going to boarding school.

Moll was a Muggle, so they were not allowed to tell her about anything to do with real magic or wizards. She thought Harold was going off to an ordinary boarding school up north and that his uncle was going to be a teacher at the same school. Harold felt bad about lying to her, but he would feel even worse if the Ministry of Magic had to come to her house and modify her memory. What if they got it wrong and made Moll forget something really important?

"Are ye sure it's a good idea, Severus?" she asked, placing the delicate cup in her hand back in its saucer and nodding her head at Harold. "With 'im still so young an' all."

"He is eleven," his uncle said, "And need I remind you, I will be right there as a chemistry teacher the entire time."

"But still," she said. "I'll miss ye."

"I'll write to you," said Harold, looking up from the sandwich in his hand. "And we'll be back for Christmas, and Easter, and all."

"Bobbins," she said. "Ye'll forget all about me once ye make friends at school."

"I won't," he said sternly, "I promise."

"We'll see." Moll lifted her cup and took a sip of her tea, looking over at his uncle. "S'pose ye'll want me ter look after the ol' gaff while ye're gone?"

"That would be appreciated," said Uncle Severus with a nod.

"Aw'right," she said. "But I won' be lookin' after that hangin' snake." The wrinkles on her face deepened as she grimaced and stuck her tongue out in disgust.

"Salazar is coming with us," said Harold quickly. "You won't have to worry about him."

"Good," she said, "Tha's all I need, me, gettin' bit by that."

"He'd never!" Harold protested. "He likes you."

Moll made a face like she didn't believe him and changed the subject to something she liked better: talking about all the things that needed to be done around the house and how there would be no one to do them now that Uncle Severus was leaving with Harold.

 

The next morning, they got up early and dressed in Muggle clothes for a trip to London. While his uncle would Apparate to Hogsmeade, Harold and Salazar would take the Hogwarts Express from Platform nine and three-quarters at the Muggle train station King's Cross at eleven in the morning. When Harold opened his mouth to argue that it would be easier and closer to go straight to Hogsmeade together, his uncle stopped him with one word, "Tradition."

After that, Uncle Severus used a Shrinking Charm on their trunks, making them so small that they fit inside their jacket pockets; a less intense version of the same charm reduced Salazar and his case to the size of a Rubik's cube, allowing Harold to carry him with one hand. They used the Floo network to get to the Leaky Cauldron, a wizard pub and inn at the end of Diagon Alley, and stepped out into Muggle London on Charing Cross Road. From there it was just a short trip via tube to King's Cross.

The large station was busy with people when they arrived at a quarter past ten in the morning. Commuters and tourists mingled on the many platforms and Harold had to stick close to his uncle for fear of getting separated.

"Here we are," said Uncle Severus as he stopped them in front of a wall.

Looking up, Harold saw platforms on either side of them; above the one on their left was a sign with the number nine and above the right a sign with the number ten. Between the two was a wall of solid brown bricks. Harold frowned as Uncle Severus turned his back against the wall.

"Turn around," he said, "and slowly step backwards."

Harold copied his uncle's movements and slowly stepped backwards, expecting to eventually bump against hard brick. Instead, he stepped back, and back, and back again, and when he lifted his head to look up from the floor there was a wrought-iron archway in front of him. At the top of the archway it said Platform Nine and Three-Quarters in cast iron letters.

An ear splitting whistle sounded behind him. Harold jumped about three feet in the air and whirled around.

There was a whole new platform in front of him, and on the tracks beside it stood a bright red steam engine with white smoke billowing from its tall stack.

Only a few families were milling about the platform, their familiars weaving willy-nilly between their legs or flying above their heads. It was easy to tell the wizards who had been born into all Muggle families. They looked around with the same astonished and excited expression as someone who had taken a deep whiff of Euphoria Elixir for the very first time. Children with at least one magical parent, on the other hand, took the cats weaving about their legs and the owls flying overhead for granted. Harold slowed down as he passed a blonde boy wearing a black blazer and pressed tan slacks, who was patting the hand of his Muggle mother.

"Please don't be upset, Mother. You'll see, it'll be very useful having a wizard in the family."

"Well," she said with a sniff, "just in case, we're not withdrawing your registration for Eton next year."

Harold rolled his eyes and hurried his steps to catch up with his uncle a couple of carriages down.

"In here," said Uncle Severus, motioning up the stairs into the third carriage. "The first two are always reserved for the prefects. The closer you are to them, the less likely anyone is going to attempt to stir trouble."

Harold dutifully hopped up the steps and opened the door to the closest compartment. There was only one person inside: a girl with bushy brown hair and a big, leather-bound book on her lap.

"Hello," said Harold. "Excuse me, is that seat taken?"

She looked up from her book and smiled, revealing a pair of large front teeth.

"Not at all. Please, have a seat."

Her face disappeared back behind the enormous tome. The bold letters on the cover identified the book as Hogwarts: A History. Harold twisted around to look back into the corridor.

"I found a seat," he called over his shoulder.

His uncle appeared on the steps. "Good, put your trunk down in that corner."

Harold pulled the miniscule trunk from his jacket pocket and placed it in the corner of the compartment. His uncle slipped his wand from his sleeve, pointed it at the trunk, and said, "Engorgio!"

The girl's head whipped up, and she watched the trunk grow back to its original size with a hungry expression.

"Amazing," she said. "I have read about this charm, and the reverse spell to shrink things of course, in the Standard Book of Spells, but to see it performed on something so complicated as a trunk full of different items is incredible. I wonder if I'll be able to do that before the year is over."

Harold frowned as he sat down opposite the girl, holding Salazar's case carefully in his lap.

"I don't remember seeing it. Are you sure it's in Standard Book of Spells?"

"Of course," she said. "You didn't see it because it's in Grade 2. I've been reading ahead."

"I'm leaving." Uncle Severus said stiffly.

"Oh," said Harold. "All right. See you later?"

His uncle rolled his eyes, slipped his wand back into his sleeve, pulled a Galleon out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to Harold.

"Don't spend all of it," he said curtly. "And don't buy anything I wouldn't approve."

Then he stepped out of the compartment and slipped the door closed behind him.

"Who was that?" asked the bushy haired girl.

"Just my uncle," said Harold. "I'm Harold. What's your name?"

"Hermione Granger, pleased to meet you. Is your uncle a wizard? My parents are what they call Muggles, they have no magic whatsoever. It was quite a shock when we got that letter from Hogwarts."

"I bet." Harold snickered. "Yeah, my uncle is a wizard." He shifted Salazar to one hand so he could stick the gold coin into the pocket of his jeans.

"What's that?" Hermione asked.

"The coin?" he asked, starting to pull it back out.

"No, I know about those. I mean the box in your lap. Is that some sort of game? I have a Rubik's cube at home. It took me ages to solve it the first time, but now I can do it in less than a minute."

Harold stuffed the coin into his pocket and carefully lifted up the case to show her.

"It's not a toy," he said, "It's my familiar, Salazar."

"Like Salazar Slytherin?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Why would you name your pet that?"

"Why not?" asked Harold. "Salazar Slytherin was a famous wizard who helped to found Hogwarts. And he's not a pet, he's a familiar."

"What's the difference?"

"Magic," said Harold. "And I can use his skin for potions."

Hermione peered into the cube, trying to make out Salazar inside the small case.

"Oh my gosh, it's a snake!" she yelped.

Harold was still snickering when the door to their compartment opened and a chubby boy with protruding ears looked in on them.

"Um, is there ... Can I ... Are you ..."

Hermione slapped the book on her lap shut, making the boy jump.

"Is there a free seat left?" she asked then answered her own question. "Yes. Can you sit with us? Sure. Are we waiting for somebody? Nope, except for you to finish your sentence. I'm Hermione Granger and this is Harold ... I never got your last name, sorry."

"Harold Prince," said Harold, turning to the boy who was looking back and forth between him and Hermione. "It's nice to meet you," he continued, patting the seat next to him and furthest from Hermione. "You can sit next to me if you want."

"Thank you," said the boy. "I'm Neville. Neville Longbottom."

The train started to move with a jerk and Neville toppled over backwards, landing on his back in the middle of the corridor. He sat up, patted himself down quickly, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found whatever it was he was looking for.

"Are you all right?" asked Hermione, jumping to her feet to help Neville get up.

"Yeah," he said as he pulled himself up by her hand and collapsed into the seat right behind the door. "I was just worried I'd lost Trevor again."

He reached into his robes and pulled out a fat, ugly toad.

"Oh, bleh," said Hermione. "First a snake, now a toad?"

"You have a snake?" said Neville, turning to look at Harold. "Where is it?"

"In here." Harold held up the shrunken glass case. "He's an African Boomslang, and his name is Salazar."

"Cool," said Neville. "I heard some older kid a couple carriages down brought a giant tarantula."

"Bleh!" said Hermione again.

Outside the window, the houses gradually gave way to open fields and country roads. Hermione stuck her nose back into Hogwarts: A History, while Neville pulled out a deck of Exploding Snap cards and managed to invite Harold to play after only a couple of stammers and false starts. Salazar was quickly moved to the small table under the window so he would have a good view while they played. The loud bangs from the exploding cards were so distracting that Hermione eventually gave up on reading and asked to join their game.

They were in the middle of their fifth hand, when the door to their compartment slid open. A woman with a big smile and dimples in her cheeks stuck her head inside, waved her hand through the smoke, and coughed a couple of times.

"Anything off the trolley?" she asked in a raspy voice.

Behind her was a large rolling cart filled with all manner of chocolates and candies. Hermione took one look and shook her head, raising her hands.

"I couldn't. My parents are dentists."

"Oh," said the woman. "I'm ... sorry?" She sounded as if she wasn't sure whether her condolences were appropriate, or, for that matter, what exactly dentists were.

Neville shook his head as well.

"My gran didn't give me any money," he said in a small voice.

Harold pulled the Galleon Uncle Severus had given him out of his pocket.

"I'll have six Chocolate Frogs and a couple of Cauldron Cakes." He looked past Neville and noticed that the other boy was staring longingly at the Licorice Wands on the back of the cart. "On second thought, make that three Cauldron Cakes and add a bag of Licorice Wands."

Neville was now smiling, but a glance back at Hermione revealed that she was eyeing the bags of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans over the top of her playing cards.   

"Oh for--," said Harold, cutting himself off just in time. "And a bag of the Beans."

He handed over the Galleon and the woman handed him his purchases along with several Knuts and Sickles in change.

"Thank you," he said politely.

"You're welcome," the woman said before she closed the door behind her.

Putting the Cauldron Cakes down on an empty seat, he dropped the Licorice Wands in Neville's lap, opened the bag of Bertie Bott's, and held it out to Hermione.

"Go on," he said.

"Maybe just one," she said, grinning as she reached into the bag.

"You sure?" asked Harold. "What if you end up with spinach flavor?"

"Really?" She made a face. "Okay, maybe a few. Thanks."

"Thank you, Harold," said Neville, pulling one of the Licorice Wands from the bundle before he tried to give back the rest.

"Keep it," said Harold. "I don't like licorice."

"Licorice root is actually good for oral health," said Hermione. "But this stuff will still give you cavities if you don't brush your teeth after."

"C-c-cavities?" Neville's eyes went wide as he looked at the red candy wand in horror.

"She means little holes in your teeth," Harold explained.

"Oh," said Neville. "But there's an easy spell for that."

"I know."

They went back to their game of Exploding Snap and Harold shared the Cauldron Cakes and divvied up the Chocolate Frogs between them, offering Neville the collector's cards he already had. When Neville went to put them away in his robes, his face turned very white and tears started to spring to his eyes.

"Oh, no! Trevor!" He patted himself down. "He's gone!"

Whirling around, he was about to open the door to their compartment, but Harold was able to stop him just in time.

"Hang on! He's probably still in here."

They searched everywhere from top to bottom and Hermione ended up finding the slippery toad ("Bleh!") in the furthest corner under the seat by the window.

"Trevor! How did you get there?"

"You know," said Harold, "Your gran should really have given you a glass case for him. It's no wonder he's constantly getting away."

"It wasn't Gran's idea to get him. My great-uncle Algie gave him to me as a present for being accepted into Hogwarts."

"Still, you're going to keep losing him if you don't find a better place to keep him than inside your robes."

"I absolutely agree," said Hermione. "Not to mention how unsanitary and mean it is to keep an amphibian animal inside your clothes. You should really ask a teacher to help you find a more fitting environment for Trevor."

Harold nodded. "Maybe your Head of House can help?"

"You think so?" Neville looked uncertain.

"What House do you think you'll be in?" asked Hermione. "I hope I'll be in Gryffindor. I've read it's the best one and that the headmaster was in it, too, when he went to school."

"What a load of rubbish," said Harold. "My uncle went to Hogwarts, and he says Gryffindors are nothing but a bunch of reckless rule-breakers and bullies. You're way too smart for them, too. You ought to be in Ravenclaw."

Hermione looked as if Harold had whapped her on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

"What do you mean?"

"Look, everyone knows that Ravenclaw is the house where the bookworms go. You've already read up on our course books well into next year, and you're bothering with that thing." He pointed at Hogwarts: A History. "Clearly, you're more interested in learning than sneaking around after lights out, and even though you seem a bit oblivious to other people's feelings, you're definitely not a bully."

"I suppose," she said slowly, appearing to give the matter some serious thought.

"Gran expects me to go to Gryffindor," said Neville quietly.

"Really?" asked Harold. "Your gran must not like you very much. You should be in Hufflepuff. They're hands down the nicest people, not super bright, but if you ever lose your toad around them, you can bet you'll have more help than you can shake a stick at."

Neville's ears turned pink as he looked down into his lap, while Hermione had raised her head again with a sharp look in her brown eyes.

"And what house are you going to be in, since you seem to know so much about all of them."

Harold lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug.

"Probably Ravenclaw, too. I'm not all that ambitious, and definitely not a reckless idiot, and I don't think I'd feel comfortable in Hufflepuff."

"But you're so nice," said Neville. "Maybe we could all be in Hufflepuff together."

Both Harold and Hermione made a face at the idea.

The door to their compartment slid open, but it wasn't the lady with the cart this time.

Three boys blocked the open doorway. The one in the middle was much shorter than the two boys standing on either side of him. While the two tall ones had dark hair and wide, plain faces, the boy in the middle was pale and blonde, with a pointy nose and chin.

"Hello," said the pale boy. "My name is Draco Malfoy. What's your name?"

He ignored Hermione and Neville completely, looking directly at Harold.

"My name is Harold Prince," he answered. "And they are Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger."

"I know who Longbottom is," said the Malfoy boy with an impatient wave of his hand. "And who cares about the girl?"

"Excuse me?" said Hermione. "How rude."

"I'm looking for Harry Potter," said Malfoy.

Harold sat very still, trying not to act suspicious. Then he used his irritation with the boy to mask his fear of being discovered.

"Well, that's no reason to be rude."

The boy sniffed as if he didn't care what Harold thought of him.

"My father said Harry Potter would be on this train. He saw the name on the acceptance list since he works for the school board."

"I don't know," said Harold slowly, "what you want me to say. You're looking for Harry Potter. I've told you our names. If there's nothing else..."

He let his sentence dangle and made a hand gesture inviting the three boys to leave.

"Now who's being rude?" asked the pale boy. "Crabbe, Goyle, let's go. There's plenty more compartments left to check."

The pale boy stepped back and walked away, his two lumbering henchmen in tow.

Harold rolled his eyes and closed the compartment door after they had gone.

"That one's sure to be in Gryffindor," he said, sitting back down in his seat. "Neville, check that Trevor's still in his pocket."

Neville checked on his toad and confirmed that the animal was still tucked inside his robes.

"You know," he said, "I think you're wrong about Malfoy."

"How so?" asked Harold.

"He's from a pure-blood family, and they've been going to Slytherin for generations."

Hermione leaned over from her seat to grab another handful of Bertie Bott's beans.

"I didn't think being pure-blood was a requirement to get into Slytherin House."

"It's not," said Neville. "It's more that getting into Slytherin is a requirement for the Malfoy family."

"Well," said Hermione, "then I definitely know which House I don't want to go to."

"I'm telling you," said Harold. "You should really go to Ravenclaw. I've heard they've even got their own library."

Hermione perked up at that.

Outside the window, the sun was beginning to set in brilliant stripes of orange and purple as the train cut its way north through lush green forests and rocky hills. When the sky had finally turned a deep purple, a voice filtered through the air.

"We will reach our destination in five minutes. Please leave all your luggage on the train. It will be brought up to Hogwarts Castle separately."

The announcement repeated itself as Harold and Hermione scrambled to take off their jackets and pulled on their work robes over their clothes.

Neville was already wearing his robes for school and checked again that Trevor was still inside them. He put his playing cards and Licorice Wands into his trunk, and Hermione put away her copy of Hogwarts: A History. Harold kept Salazar safely on his lap, and all three of them shifted nervously in their seats, eyes glued to the window beyond their compartment door, as they waited for the train to pull into the station. 

As the train slowed down, the corridor outside their compartment filled with people. By the time it stopped moving, Harold, Hermione, and Neville had to wait for everyone else to file out of the carriage before they could follow them down the steps onto the dark platform. The cold night air ruffled through Harold's hair and he tucked himself tighter inside his robes. The whole platform was crammed with students, moving in a sea of black robes. Nobody was wearing their hats, he noticed.

A bright orange glow from above made Harold raise his head as a booming voice echoed over the chatter of hundreds of students.

"Firs' years over here! Mind yer step. Over here. Firs' years, over here."

The accent sounded a bit like Moll's, but it belonged to a giant man, easily the height of a bus. His long hair and beard were even bushier than Hermione's. Harold tightened his fingers around Salazar's case and followed along behind the light of the lantern with Neville and Hermione close by. The path they took was steep and narrow, and the ground was very slippery. A tug on his sleeve made Harold look down to see that Neville was holding on to his elbow, looking terrified.

"It's fine," Harold said. "Just walk slow."

Neville sniffled but then nodded with a determined expression.

"Ye'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts jus' round this bend!" shouted the giant man.

Behind the bend, the path opened up onto the view of an enormous black lake. On the water's edge, dozens of little boats were moored by magic, and far away, on the other side of the lake, sat the castle on top of the cliff that Harold had visited with his uncle a month ago. It had several turrets and towers that he hadn't noticed before, and hundreds of lighted windows that sparkled in the inky sky.

"Four to a boat!" said the man with the lantern. "No more'n that, ye hear?"

Harold, Neville, and Hermione climbed into one of the boats and were joined by the blonde Muggle-born boy whom Harold had seen on the platform at King's Cross.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley," said the boy.

They had just enough time to introduce themselves and shake hands before the giant man shouted, "FORWARD!"

All at once, the boats started to drift out onto the lake, following behind the man with the lantern who was taking up a whole boat by himself. Nobody spoke as they sailed across the smooth water towards the castle in the distance.

"Heads down!" yelled the man as they approached the cliffs; everyone ducked as they passed through a heavy curtain of overgrown ivy into a dark, cavernous tunnel. The boats slowed down and came to a stop on a pebbled shore far inside the cliffs.

Harold, Neville, and Hermione climbed out of their boat and had only walked a few steps when Justin called after them.

"Hey, you lost your toad!"

"Trevor!"

Harold and Hermione groaned as Neville doubled back and lifted the wayward toad out of Justin's hands.

"Thank you," he said.

"Sure," said Justin. "No problem."

They followed behind the orange glow of the lamp up a narrow stone passageway and out onto the damp lawn in front of the castle. Harold recognized where he was as they neared the stone steps leading up to the huge oak front door.

"Finally," he said with a sigh.

The giant man raised his free hand and pounded his fist against the door three times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are really going to start to change, beginning with this chapter. While this story keeps the individual personalities of the characters as compliant with canon as possible, they will not all meet each other in the same way or part on the same terms. 
> 
> A quick note for any Shippers: at this point Harold is eleven years old. That means there is no romance on the horizon at all.
> 
> Thank you all for your continued interest and the kindly kudos. I am always happy to see feedback of any kind. If you have thoughts or questions about the story, let me know. I'll try to answer to the best of my ability.


	6. The Sorting Hat

The door swung open and revealed a tall witch in emerald green robes. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she wore square spectacles on her stern face.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said the giant man.

"Thank you, Hagrid," she replied, revealing the man's name at last. "I will take them from here."

They crowded into the large entrance hall, but instead of going up the marble staircase, Professor McGonagall led them across the flagged stone floor and through a narrow door on the left. They barely fit inside the cramped room, and Harold ended up standing shoulder to shoulder with Neville on one side and Hermione on the other, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The other students are already assembled in the Great Hall, but before you can join them at their tables, you will have to be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting ceremony is a very important tradition here at Hogwarts. It will decide which of the four Houses you will belong to. Your House will be your family, of sorts, during the school term. You will have classes with your House mates, and live in the common room and dormitories that belong to your House. Good behavior and outstanding achievements will earn you House points while bad behavior and any rule-breaking will lose them. The House that has collected the most points at the end of the year will win the House Cup, which is considered a great honor here at Hogwarts. There are four Houses: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw, and each of them can pride itself on its own splendid history and famous alumni. I hope you will bear that in mind when you join their ranks and reflect this pride with your own behavior." She clapped her hands together. "Now, the Sorting will start in just a few minutes, so smarten up as much as you can in the meantime." She said the last bit while staring at a red-headed boy with a big smudge on his long, freckled nose. Then she told them to wait quietly and left the room.

As soon as the door had closed behind Professor McGonagall, Hermione leaned over to him.

"I wonder what this is all about. Did your uncle say anything?"

"Not really," said Harold. "Just that everyone gets sorted first thing, and there's no changing House after that." He turned his head to his other side. "Neville?"

Neville shook his head with a shrug.

When the red-headed boy with the smudged nose said something that included the word "test", Neville's eyes went wide, Harold's eyes narrowed, and Hermione looked lost in speculation.

"I wonder what kind of test it is," she said in a rushed mumble. "If it's a spell test, it can't be too difficult. I already learned one for opening doors and, in theory, the ones for shrinking and growing things, but I don't think they'd use those, since that's not actually something they teach first years. Oh!" She grabbed Harold's arm. "Do you think it'll be a Levitating Charm? That was one of the first ones in the book for our grade."

Harold rolled his eyes and placed a finger in front of his lips, reminding Hermione that they were supposed to be quiet.

"Oh, right." She blushed crimson. "Sorry." Then she mimed zipping her lips shut.

Hermione was throwing away the invisible key to her mouth when it happened.

"What the --"

The rest of the sentence was drowned out by several people screaming.

Harold turned around and gasped. Ghosts were streaming through the back wall into the small chamber, a dozen or more of them. Like clouds of smoke that had taken the shape of people, they drifted across the floor, ignoring the startled screams. They were too busy arguing amongst themselves.

"Forgive and forget," said a little monk with a big potbelly. "I say we give him a second chance."

"My dear Friar," responded a tall gentleman who looked like he belonged in a Shakespeare play, "haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name -- Oh!" He had finally noticed they were not alone. "Where did you come from?"

"New students!" cried the Friar happily. "About to be Sorted, I'm sure. How wonderful! I hope to see you all in Hufflepuff!   

"Don't be daft," said a third ghost with a gaunt face and bloodstained robes.

"That's enough!" Professor McGonagall had returned. "It's time to move into the Great Hall. They're ready for the Sorting ceremony."

The ghosts disappeared through the opposite wall, mumbling amongst themselves.

"Quickly," said Professor McGonagall, "after me now, single-file if you please."

Everyone lined up and followed the tall professor out the door and across the entrance hall. Harold noticed four large hourglasses, two on each side of the main entrance, as they passed by on their way to a large set of doors facing east.

The doors opened and Harold stepped inside with Neville right behind him, and Hermione peering over Neville's shoulder. Professor McGonagall led them down a wide aisle between the middle two of four tables that ran the length of the hall. The tables were set with golden plates and goblets, enough to serve the hundreds of faces that sat behind them, staring at the newcomers. Harold had never seen so many people in a single place. Above the tables hung thick, white candles in mid air and far above the candles hung the velvety black sky with thousands of glittering stars. Harold had to look twice to recognize that it was an enchantment. He was still staring upward when Hermione's voice hissed in his ear.

"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside."

"Yeah, I noticed," he whispered back.

They followed Professor McGonagall all the way down the aisle to a fifth table on a platform at the back of the hall where the teachers were sitting. Harold curbed the silly urge to wave hello to his uncle, who was sitting next to a strange looking fellow wearing a large purple turban. Professor McGonagall had them all turn around to face the student tables and sat a small, four-legged stool in the middle of the stage in front of them. Then she placed a tall, pointed hat on top of the stool. Harold's brows furrowed as he took a closer look. The hat was old and worn out and had a large gash above its wide brim. It was the same hat he had noticed in the headmaster's office, on the shelf behind the enormous writing desk. What a curious thing to use in a ceremony that was supposedly very important and traditional. As of yet, they had never even put on their own hats that they had to purchase for school. Despite hundreds of people filling the Hall, it was eerily quiet as everyone stared at the hat. Then the hat twitched once, ripped open the gash in its side and began to sing:

Though you may think I'm ugly,  
Judge not by what you see.  
A life as smart accessory  
Was never meant for me.  
For I was made a Sorting Hat,  
Enchanted to divine  
By sitting on the wearer's head  
Which House they're meant to join.  
Should your new House be Gryffindor,  
Take heart! You'll join the brave,  
Who'd rather seek adventure young  
Than reach an old man's grave.  
Should your new house be Hufflepuff,  
Great start! Best friends you'll gain.  
The truest souls, the kindest kind,  
Who forever shall remain.  
If your new House is Slytherin,  
Fear not! You'll soon achieve  
Your goals among the cunning folk,  
A bunch as thick as thieves.  
And if your house is Ravenclaw,  
What luck! As soon you'll learn,  
No smarter lot, no wiser crowd,  
Life's wisdom you will earn.  
So place me gently on your head  
And let me see inside  
I'll find your House, I'll steer you right,  
In that I take great pride. 

The hat fell silent and, a moment later, the whole hall erupted with cheers, students clapping their hands, stomping their feet, and whistling through their teeth. Hermione leaned over and spoke into his ear, raising her voice above the din.

"That's a bit of a let-down, isn't it?"

Harold shrugged. He wasn't sure what to think of it. How was some old, enchanted hat supposed to know what House was best suited for his personality? Hopefully, the hat would allow some personal influence by the wearer; he did not want to end up in Hufflepuff just because he'd been nice to Hermione and Neville on the train.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a long roll of parchment stretched open between her hands.

"When I call your name, please step forward, put on the hat, and take a seat on the stool to be sorted."

Then she started to list off names, starting with Abbott, Hannah, a pink-faced blonde girl with bouncing pigtails. She had barely pulled on the hat when it cried "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table on the right exploded with cheers. The ghost of the small monk with the big potbelly was waving his arms, beckoning her over with a big smile on his nearly transparent face. Bones, Susan ended up right next to Hannah a few moments later. Boot, Terry and Brocklehurst, Mandy went to Ravenclaw, who were taking up the second table from the left and greeted newcomers with warm applause and firm handshakes. When the first Gryffindor was called out (Brown, Lavender) Harold had to resist the urge to plug his ears. They were certainly the noisiest table in the hall.

When Bulstrode, Millicent was proclaimed the first Slytherin, the reaction couldn't have been more opposite. There was polite, quiet applause at the second table from the right and, as the girl sat down, several of the older kids nodded their heads and smiled as if they already knew her.

On and on it went. The Muggle-born Justin Finch-Fletchley went to Hufflepuff and Harold could see Neville's eyes following the blonde boy all the way to the table on the far right. When it was Hermione's turn, the hat sat on her for a good minute, maybe longer, flattening her bushy hair as everyone waited for its decision.

Harold wondered if the hat was just going to give up and what it would say when it came to that, when it finally opened its gash and shouted, "RAVENCLAW!"

Polite cheers and warm handshakes greeted Hermione at the table with the smart kids. When she looked up at Harold with a big, buck-toothed grin, he couldn't resist giving her a thumbs up.

It took ages to get from Granger to Longbottom, and they still were nowhere near Harold's last name. Neville handled the hat as if it might explode, probably worried that just touching it would make the gash finally split all the way and it would be his fault that the hat got destroyed. Harold felt a twinge of sympathy for the clumsy boy. He squashed it quickly, lest he should end up in --

"HUFFLEPUFF!" cried the hat.

Harold jumped about a foot in the air, grabbing his chest. Then he realized the shout hadn't been for him.

Neville ran to the Hufflepuff table with the Sorting Hat still on his head. Everyone started laughing, and Neville went beet red as he rushed back to the stage, stumbled over his own feet, and placed the hat on the stool with a chagrined, "Sorry, so sorry."

The Hufflepuff table didn't take it badly. They pulled Neville into their midst as soon as he reached them, and Justin Finch-Fletchley threw an arm around him, grinning madly as he gently cuffed Neville on the shoulder.

Harold shook his head. At least he could now say with a degree of certainty that the hat had a good idea of what it was doing. After all, it had followed Harold's suggestion for both people he already knew.

"Malfoy, Draco!" called Professor McGonagall.

Harold watched as the pale boy walked up to the stool, picked up the Sorting Hat, and slowly lowered it onto his white blond head. "SLYTHERIN!"

That came as a surprise. He had been sure the nasty boy was going to end up in Gryffindor with the bullies and rule-breakers. Then he remembered what Neville had told him on the train. Being in Slytherin was sort of a requirement for the Malfoy family. That was probably why the hat hadn't thought twice about its decision. Harold wondered if it might have been influenced by Malfoy's father as well; the man was on the school board, after all.

It felt like another eternity passed until they finally got to the Ps. If this took much longer, he would have to take Salazar out of his robe pocket just to give his poor shrunken friend some fresh air. Finally, Professor McGonagall called his name.

"Prince, Harold!"

He stepped forward, pulled the hat off the stool, sat down, and dropped the old thing over his head. It fell right down over his nose, leaving him to stare at complete darkness. Nothing happened for a moment. Then he heard a small voice speaking in his ear.

"Interesting," said the voice. "My, you sure are something else, aren't you? Two names, two families, two souls. Why, you've got two of everything!"

Harold rolled his eyes. He had two of those, as well.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you, Harry Potter?" asked the hat.

"You can't tell anyone!" Harold said quickly.

"Brazen," said the hat. "It's not my trade to reveal your name, only to reveal your House." It chuckled. "It's clear you've plenty of courage and a need to prove yourself. You might do well in--"

"Not Gryffindor," said Harold. "Don't even think it."

"Well, well. If not Gryffindor then where? Let's see. You have talent, and a keen mind, but with a secret like yours to keep, Ravenclaw might not be your best choice. You need someone shrewd, a group that understands the need for discretion. They know how to guard their secrets and protect their own. With that in mind, better be SLYTHERIN!"

The hat shouted the final word out loud. There was stunned silence at the Slytherin table as Harold slipped the hat off his head and placed it back on the stool. The Slytherins clearly didn't know what to make of him. The first one to clap was a tall girl with long, curly hair and a big green badge pinned to her chest; in the center of the badge gleamed a large, silver P. Soon, others joined her in clapping politely, and Harold sat down to muttered whispers that went down the length of the Slytherin table.

The Sorting continued, but Harold didn't pay much attention to it because he was too busy answering the Slytherins hissed questions.

"Where are you from?"

"Cokeworth," he whispered back.

"Who are your parents?"

"They're dead," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"What did he say?"

"He said they're dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's alright," said Harold. 

"Who do you live with?"

"My uncle, Severus Snape."

"Snape's your uncle?"

"Snape's his uncle!"

"Did you hear? He said our new Head of House is his uncle."

That revelation caused some excitement until the girl with the gleaming badge stepped in and hissed at all of them.

"Everyone, be quiet. They're getting ready to sort Blaise Zabini!"

The table quieted down just in time to hear the hat shout, "SLYTHERIN!"

As soon as Blaise had joined them at their table, Professor McGonagall disappeared through a side door behind the staff table with the Sorting Hat and footstool under her arm. Once she returned and took her place beside the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet and spread his arms wide, beaming at them from behind the center of the staff table.

"Welcome!" he said. "All of you, welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Let me just say a few words before we begin our start-of-term feast." A few groans rose up from the student tables, but Dumbledore raised one hand even higher to stall them. "Blubber, oddment, nitwit, tweak! That's all for now."

Harold could feel his face crumple in confusion and looked up to see similar expressions on the faces of his fellow Slytherins.

"He's a bit--" He lifted one hand and twirled his forefinger next to his temple. "Isn't he?"

"Daft as a brush," said a black-haired girl with a snub nose, "and not half as useful."

Harold nodded and then jerked in surprise. More dishes had appeared in the middle of the table: platters filled with pork, beef, and poultry; bowls full of carrots, potatoes, peas, beans, and broccoli; and there was even a shallow dish filled with Brussels sprouts. Bottles of ketchup and gravy boats sat between every other dish.

Harold's eyes were wide as he looked at the abundance of food.

"They won't make us do the dishes, will they?" he quietly asked the dark-skinned boy next to him.

"Nah. That's for house-elves and detentions," scoffed the boy, loading his plate with beef and potatoes before he held out his hand to Harold. "Blaise Zabini. What's your name?"

"Harold Prince." He shook Blaise's hand with a smile. "Nice to meet you."

Then nobody said anything for a while as everyone was too busy stuffing their faces with the delicious food.

A silver ghost slipped into the seat next to Malfoy, looking mournfully at the roast pheasant. It was the grumpy ghost with the blood stained robes who had insulted the Fat Friar earlier. Malfoy looked up askance from his dinner plate.

"Do you have to sit quite so close?" he said testily.

"Excuse me?" said the ghost, just as testily. "If you must talk to me, you will address me as Your Highness."

"Whatever, your highness." Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Show some respect, curd, when you speak to a Baron," snarled the Bloody Baron.

The ghost snapped his hand forward, but instead of slapping Malfoy upside the head, it went right through him, making him shudder violently.   

Everyone else laughed, so Harold didn't feel bad about snickering under his breath. The ghost's horrible appearance did make him curious, though.

"Pardon my curiosity, your highness," he said politely, "but I noticed that your robes are stained. What happened?"

The Bloody Baron turned his head, staring at Harold with haunted, sunken eyes. The older kids at the table seemed to hold their breath.

"I don't like to talk about it," said the Baron, "And I should thank you to never mention it again."

"Terribly sorry, your highness," mumbled Harold, uncomfortable with the hollow stare.

"Oy," yelled a boy with a squeaky voice, drawing everyone's attention, "d'you reckon we'll take the Cup again this year?"

"For sure," said a tall boy with black hair, who looked like he might be a seventh year. "You just make sure you keep those Gryffindorks from scoring, Bletchley, and we'll take both of them, no problem. Magic Number 7."

Cheers erupted from a small group around the two boys, and Harold couldn't help but feel a little jealous. It was obvious they were the Slytherin Quidditch team, and the tall black-haired boy was probably their captain. Harold leaned closer to Blaise, raising his voice to be heard over the din.

"Do you know what he means?"

"O'course!" said Blaise around a mouthful of potatoes, finishing his bite before he continued. "He means the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup. That's Terry Higgins, our Seeker. He's won us the Quidditch Cup the last four years, and we've held the House Cup for six, going for Magic Number 7 this year."

"Wow," said Harold. It was an impressive achievement. However, it was odd that Blaise was so well informed. "But, how do you know so much? You're a first year, just like me."

"Yeah, but most of us know each other," said Blaise, shrugging. "Terry Higgins is Bletchley's cousin," he said, pointing at the boy with the squeaky voice, "and Bletchley's grand mother is a famous singer who's done a lot of work with Farley's dad," he continued, pointing at the curly-haired girl with the badge on her robes, "who's the Godfather of Parkinson over there." He pointed at the snub-nosed first-year girl across the table. "Whose cousin twice removed was my mother's third, no wait, fourth husband."

Harold's eyes widened. "How many husbands did your mum have?"

"Seven so far," said Blaise nonchalantly. "Anyway, you see how it works. You're the odd one out, actually. I don't think anyone here's heard of you before."

Harold ducked his head, ruffling a hand through his hair.

"Yeah," he said, watching as the rest of his food disappeared, leaving behind a clean plate. "My uncle's not very social. I think I've met maybe five people in my whole life," he said with a lopsided grin.

"That's right," said the snub-nosed girl, butting into their conversation. "Your uncle is one of the new teachers, and our new Head of House, isn't he?"

"Is he?" asked Harold, irritated with the nosy girl. Between her nose and her otherwise flat face, she looked rather like a pug.

"Well, isn't he?" she said insistently. "You said your uncle is Severus Snape, and Gemma said that's our new Head of House." She flicked her fork toward the girl Blaise had identified as Farley.

"Pansy, could you try not to stab me?" asked a disgruntled Malfoy, who was sitting between her and the Bloody Baron.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Draco darling." She retrieved her fork immediately, and checked to make sure she hadn't actually harmed him.

"Don't call me darling," Malfoy groused.

"Of course, dear."

Harold snickered under his breath and noticed several other people do the same. The table filled again, this time with desserts: ice-cream, pies and tarts, fresh fruits, trifle, puddings and Jell-O, pastries and cakes; there was something for everyone's taste. After he placed a strawberry tart and a few cream puffs on his plate, Harold looked up at the staff table.

His uncle was still talking to the funny looking man in the purple turban. After a moment of intense debate, both of them turned and looked directly at Harold. A jolt of pain shot through his forehead. It was so intense he clapped his hand over the spot where his scar was hidden, expecting it to come away bloody, but when he pulled his hand away again, there was nothing on his palm and the pain was gone. Looking back up, he saw that his uncle and the man in the purple turban had gone back to their conversation.

"Who's that guy?" he asked Blaise with a quick jerk of his chin.

"Which one?" Blaise looked up at the staff table.

"The one in the turban, sitting next to my uncle." 

"Dunno," said Blaise.

"That would be Professor Quirinus Quirrell," said Pansy importantly, "the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Isn't that right, Draco, darling?"

"Stop calling me darling." Malfoy growled around his last bite of pumpkin pie before he continued, "There's a new one every year. My father says it's Dumbledore's incompetence that keeps chasing them off. Quirrell used to teach Muggle Studies before he left for an extended Sabbatical. A waste of time that subject. My father says it's even more useless than Divination."

"Your father says a lot," muttered Harold under his breath.

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, but the food disappeared from their dishes and someone at the high table cleared their throat.

Dumbledore had risen from his chair once again and was holding up his hands. He waited a few more moments for everyone to be quiet, Gryffindor notably taking the longest.

"Now that we're all sated and happy, let me share a few more start-of-term notices before it's off to bed for all of us." He looked around with twinkling eyes and took a deep breath.

"First of all, the forest on the grounds is forbidden. That means: no student is allowed to enter it without the company of a teacher."

It came as no surprise that Dumbledore's eyes rested heavily on the Gryffindor table for a long moment before he continued.

"Secondly, our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind all of you not to use magic in the corridors between classes."

A low rumbling went through all four student tables.

"Quidditch trials," Dumbledore said, raising his voice over the chatter, "will be held starting next week. If you are interested in playing for your House team, please contact Madam Hooch."

He waited patiently for the resulting noise to die down before he finished his announcements.

"Finally, and most importantly, for this year, the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor is forbidden to everyone. The only thing you will find there is a very painful death." He paused, looking intently around the room before he went on in a much more cheerful tone. "You will continue to find the Charms classroom, the Library, the Armory, and the Trophy Room, as well as several broom cupboards and the entrance to the Clock tower on the left-hand side."

Harold raised his eyebrows and looked at Blaise, who shrugged and looked at Pansy, who also shrugged and looked over at Malfoy, who rolled his eyes and spread his hands to indicate he had no idea either. A few seats down, Gemma Farley was sitting very primly with an annoyed scowl on her face.

"And now!" shouted Dumbledore. "To close the evening on a high note, or a low note, or whichever note you prefer," he said with a smile. "The school song. Please, pick your favorite melody, and sing along."

He flicked his wand. A long golden ribbon slithered from the tip and twisted into large, easily readable words in the air.

It was pandemonium; or at least, around the three other tables it was. The Slytherins seemed to have agreed on one melody, and Harold made sure to mouth along silently. Everyone else was bellowing the golden words in the air at different times in a different pitch and it seemed to take forever to get through the two or three simple verses of the song. Harold shot a baleful glare at the Gryffindor table, where a set of red-headed twins was still singing loudly after everyone else had finished.

"Weasleys," said Malfoy with a sneer as they finished their wailing tune.

There was a short round of applause and then Dumbledore sent everyone off to bed.

Harold hadn't realized how tired he was until they were getting up from their table at the same time as everyone else and had to stand in a crowd, waiting for their turn to leave the Great Hall. He pulled Salazar out of his robes and held him up to his face. His tiny friend was hanging upside down from his branch, letting his head dangle. One quick tap to the glass and Salazar raised his head and flicked his tongue, proving that he was just bored, not dead.

Gemma Farley led the first years in a group across the entrance hall and down a flight of stairs into the dungeons. The long stone corridors were cool and damp, lit by torches on both sides along the way. Many of the portraits on the walls were empty, their owners probably chatting it up somewhere else in the castle. The Bloody Baron floated along behind them as they marched past the Potions classroom and a few other closed doors, until Gemma stopped everyone in front of a blank wall.

"Quiet, everyone," she said, looking over their heads and past the Bloody Baron to check that the corridor was empty except for them.

"Now, I want you to pay attention. I know you're tired, but this is important. Our common room is the only one that's truly hidden. No outsider has set foot in it for over seven hundred years. There is no door, no portrait, no barrels, nothing to give away its exact location, so you will have to be smart enough to memorize it by the amount of steps it takes to get there from the corner of the corridor. Don't forget that when you head out for breakfast tomorrow morning."  She turned away from them and faced the blank wall in front of her.

"Acromantula Venom," she said clearly.

The stone wall parted, revealing the entrance into the common room. Gemma ushered everyone inside as quickly as possible and Harold watched the stone wall slide shut as soon as they were through.

The common room was long and wide with stone walls and green lamps hanging from the ceiling. Ahead of them was an elaborate mantelpiece around a huge fireplace. Several high-backed chairs stood turned toward the crackling fire. Most of the chairs were empty, but a few older students were hanging around, talking quietly or reading books.

Gemma cleared her throat, drawing everyone's attention back to her.

"The password changes every fortnight and will be posted on the notice board by the entrance, so be sure to keep track. Never bring an outsider into our common room and never share the password. Boys dormitories are through the door on the right, girls through the door on the left. All the windows look out into the lake, so please don't try to open them. If something big and dark swishes by, that's just the Giant Squid. There's also Mermaids, Grindylows, and a few other creatures, mostly fish, so please don't come screaming into my dorm every time something knocks on the window."

She took a deep breath and glanced up as if there were invisible instructions written in the air.

"If someone from the other Houses bothers you, come find one of us prefects. You can tell who we are by the badge on our robes. It's going to have a green background. Any other color and that means it's a prefect from a different House. Also, it's very unlikely, but if Peeves the Poltergeist tries to bother you, tell him you'll call the Bloody Baron. That'll sort him out right away."

She glanced up again, thinking for a moment, then nodded to herself and folded her hands.

"That's really all you need to know for now. We'll sort out the rest later. Off to bed now. The dorm rooms will have your names on the door."

Harold trudged along with Blaise, Malfoy, Malfoy's two henchmen from the train, and one other first year boy, across the common room and through the door on the right.

They were all placed in the same dorm room: an oblong chamber lit by silver lanterns, with three ancient four-poster beds on each side and a tall, wide window at the end of the room. Each bed had green silk hangings, silver-embroidered sheets, and a small bedside table on the left side of the headboard. Harold's trunk had been placed at the foot of the furthest bed on the right, next to the big window. As he closed the door, he noticed there was a medieval tapestry on the wall next to it that depicted a wizard in long, dark robes and a pointed hat defeating a giant Griffin.

Everyone went straight to their own bed, too tired to say much of anything. Harold placed Salazar's case on the bedside table, pulled off his robes, toed his trainers off his feet, and climbed between sheets. The sound of water lapping gently against the window was the last thing he heard.

Harold must have had one cream puff too many, because he had a terrible nightmare. Hermione, Neville, and he had all been sorted into Gryffindor. The red-headed twins were singing loudly off-key, and the boy with the smudged nose was putting a leg-locker curse on Neville and calling Hermione a bossy know-it-all. Even worse, everyone seemed to know that Harold was really Harry Potter and kept asking him to do things for them. "Tell us how you got your scar, Harry," they said, "Show us how you killed You-Know-Who!" Malfoy was there, sneering and scoffing, "My father says you didn't really do anything at all. You're just a show-off. You can't even cast a single hex."

"Yes, I can!" Harold roared and swished his wand. There was a bright green light and Harold woke with a start, gasping for air.

He looked around, noticed that everyone was still sleeping, and lay back down again, staring at the lake. The water lulled him back to sleep, and the next morning, he didn't even remember having a bad dream.


	7. Potions Class

"Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine ... and a half."

Harold frowned. His right foot was in the air half a step away from the corner of the corridor that led to the secret entrance of the Slytherin common room. It was tempting to go back and do it over, but he still had to drop off Salazar at the Potions classroom before breakfast, and if he changed the length of his steps now, he would probably mess up later.

Shaking his head, he kept going. Down the next corridor, near the stairs to the entrance hall, he knocked on the thick oak door of the Potions classroom. When he received no response, he tried the handle, but it was locked. A quick look around confirmed that he was the only person in the corridor before he pulled Salazar out of his pocket.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as quietly as he could. "I'll get you to Uncle Severus as soon as I can."

"Bored," said Salazar. "Hungry!"

"I know, sorry."

He stuck the case back into his robes and headed for the staircase, muttering "thirty-nine and a half" under his breath all the way up the stone steps to the entrance hall and into the Great Hall where he sat down at the Slytherin table.

"Good morning."

Harold looked up from his empty plate into the wide face of a girl with dark hair and bright eyes.

"Good morning," he replied with a nod.

"Millicent Bulstrode," she said. "But I go by Millie."

"Nice to meet you, Millie. I'm Harold."

"Yeah," said Millie, "I heard. Pansy wouldn't shut up about it last night."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Harold made a face.

Millie shrugged her broad shoulders.

Promptly at seven thirty the breakfast dishes appeared. Steaming pots of tea and coffee, jugs of milk and different juices, and even a carafe with iced water sat between the platters of pancakes, eggs, sausages, beans, bacon, and ham. There were also boxes of cereal and muesli, baskets full of fresh breads and pastries, and bowls with fresh fruit and yogurt.

Harold prepared himself a plate with sausage and egg, pulled a crisp slice of toast from the basket closest to him, and started to spread a thick layer of butter on it.

"There you are!"

Hermione Granger plopped down on the seat next to him. Harold nearly choked on a bite of toast. He started to cough and she thumped his back a little too hard, making it worse instead of better. Through blurry eyes, Harold saw that Millie was scowling at them, or, more accurately, at Hermione.

"What are you doing?" Millie asked with a nasty sneer. "This is the Slytherin table. Are you daft or something?"

Hermione huffed, rolled her eyes, and finally stopped thumping Harold's back.

"Well, excuse me," she said mockingly. "I didn't know that things were that strict. Am I still allowed to talk to my friend, or am I supposed to shun him now because he's in a different House?"

"Er--" Millie blinked owlishly as her face twisted into a confused scowl.

"Come on, Harold. I'm sure the Ravenclaw table won't mind a visitor for breakfast."

Without waiting for Harold's opinion, she started to pull on his elbow, trying to get him up.

"Oy," he protested around his toast, snatching his elbow back. "You mind?"

"But..."

Hermione's eyes glittered. Harold grunted and turned his eyes on Millie.

"Look, I've already loaded my plate, and she's not that bad--"

"Hey!"

"--when you get to know her. Could you make an exception? Just for today?"

Millie kept scowling for a moment, but then she nodded and went back to her own plate, piled high with a full English breakfast.

"Thank you," said Hermione as she sat back down and held out her hand across the table. "Hermione Granger, Ravenclaw."

Millie looked at the outstretched hand as if it was covered in bubotuber pus, lowered her head, and shoveled a forkful of beans in her mouth.

"Right." Hermione pulled her hand back and continued as if nothing had happened. "So, what did you think of the Sorting ceremony? Didn't that take forever and a day? And there was only around forty of us. I can't even imagine what it'd be like to sort a hundred new kids before dinner."

Harold already regretted asking Millie for the exception. He was not a very talkative person in the morning, and Hermione was a chatterbox. She managed to inhale a full plate of toast and eggs and fruit and still talked non-stop about the Ravenclaw common room, and the library, and their upcoming classes, every so often referencing Hogwarts: A History. He had a feeling if he listened to Hermione long enough, he would never have to read the book and still know everything about it.

When Millie got up a few minutes later, he managed to mouth a quick "sorry" at her before she left the table.

"Listen," he said to Hermione, getting up from the table. "I've got to go. I still need to do something before class."

"Oh, okay." She looked disappointed. "See you later?"

"Yeah, later."

Harold quickly left and headed toward the staff table at the back of the hall. The only teachers who were already present were Professor McGonagall, the stern looking black-haired witch who had taken them to be sorted, and a tiny wizard sitting on a high stool next to her. Harold approached the table and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, Professors?"

"Yes." said Professor McGonagall. "What is it?"

"Would you be able to tell me where I can find my uncle, Professor Snape?"

"If he is not here yet, I imagine he would still be in his quarters in the dungeons."

Harold pressed his lips together. He had hoped for a more helpful answer than that. Obviously, he had expected too much.

"And where in the dungeons are these quarters?" he said, using the same honeyed tones his uncle used when he was talking to a particularly obtuse individual.

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips at him for a moment before she answered.

"Three doors down from the Potions classroom," she said crisply.

"Thank you, Professor. I will see you in class."

Harold headed back down into the dungeons and counted the doors starting from the Potions classroom. When he reached the third door, he knocked a couple of times. There was no response, so he knocked again, a little louder.

"Uncle Severus?"

The door swung open and his uncle pulled him inside and slammed the door behind him so quickly it was a miracle Harold's robes didn't get caught. Uncle Severus was dressed in his brand new black robes and had a nasty scowl on his face.

"Must you visit me in my private quarters? What on earth is so important it cannot wait until breakfast?"

Harold looked up with furrowed brows, wondering why his uncle was in such a foul mood already.

"You never said I shouldn't."

"I don't want other students seeing you and getting the idea they can bother me at all hours of the day and night."

"Oh," said Harold. "That makes sense. I'm only here because the Potions classroom was locked, and you still need to turn Salazar back to his normal size."

He removed the shrunken glass case from his robes and held it up so his uncle could see. Salazar was drooping listlessly from his branch, clearly bored to sleep. Uncle Severus huffed and plucked the cube from Harold's palm with two fingers.

"I forgot all about that bloody snake. Follow me."

Harold followed his uncle's billowing robes through a door on the left into a dark office and back out on the opposite side through another door that opened into the front of the Potions classroom next to the blackboard. Uncle Severus spun around slowly until he spotted a suitable chest of drawers in a corner near the ingredients shelves.

"There."

He placed the case on the dresser, slipped his wand from his sleeve, pointed it and muttered, "Engorgio!"

Salazar and his surroundings grew back to their original size.

"Thanks," said Harold. "Can I, er--" He hesitated, knowing his next request wouldn't win him any favors. "Can I talk to him for a minute?"

A thunderous expression darkened his uncle's pale features.

"Make it quick," he said coldly. "I have to go to breakfast. That reminds me."

Uncle Severus disappeared through the door by the blackboard in a swirl of black robes and reappeared shortly afterwards with a short, thick parchment in his hand.

"Your schedule," he said. "I won't see you in class until Friday. It's a double lesson and grouped with the Gryffindors." He sneered. "Be prepared for anything."

"Thank you." Harold accepted the schedule with a smirk and a nod.

"You can let yourself out through there when you're done." Uncle Severus pointed his wand at the door into the main corridor. "Alohomora."

The lock clicked open.

"Thanks," Harold said again, but his uncle had already disappeared back through the door by the blackboard.

After a quick conversation with Salazar to make sure he was all right and not in immediate need of anything, Harold checked his schedule and headed back up the staircase. His first class in the morning was Charms, followed by a free period, and after that Herbology with the Ravenclaws in the greenhouses behind the castle.

He almost tripped over a vanishing step between the second and third floor, and looked up to see the man in the purple turban, Professor Quirrell, come down the stairs.

"Good morning, Professor," he said politely as they passed each other.

"G-g-good morning," said Professor Quirrell and continued on, expertly skipping the vanishing step on his way down.

Harold stepped up onto the third floor landing and immediately turned left, remembering the headmaster's dire warning about the very painful death lurking behind the door on the right-hand side of the corridor. Having grown up around dangerous potions ingredients, and nearly having committed accidental suicide by liquid antimony at age seven, Harold took such warnings very seriously.

The tiny wizard who had sat next to McGonagall at the staff table turned out to be the Charms teacher, Professor Flitwick. At the start of class, he swished, flicked, and twirled his wand, and Harold watched with wide eyes as books flew out of the shelves beside the blackboard, stacked themselves neatly into a set of stairs beside a chair, and built a small podium on the seat, boosting up Professor Flitwick far enough that he could see over the enormous desk in front of him. When he started to take the roll call, Harold winced; it would take a while to get used to the high-pitched voice of the professor.

On his way back from Charms, he noticed a commotion by the main staircase in front of the door to the right-hand side corridor. Harold stopped and ducked behind a suit of armor to watch.

A scowling man with stringy gray hair and pale, bulging eyes was cornering a skinny boy against the forbidden door. Upon looking closer, Harold recognized the boy as the freckled redhead who had gone through the Sorting ceremony with a smudge on his nose. While the man yelled at the cowering boy, a mangy gray cat was winding itself around his crooked legs.

"M-M-Mr. Filch!"

Professor Quirrell appeared at the top of the steps and placed himself in front of the redhead with a stern frown on his pale, twitchy face.

"That's q-q-quite enough," he said, speaking loudly despite his stammer. "I'm sure the b-boy is m-merely lost. He's c-clearly a f-first year." Then he turned to the boy. "G-g-go on, g-get out of here."

As the boy ran off, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, grumbled something in a low voice that made Professor Quirrell twitch strongly before they both went separate ways on the staircase. 

Harold ducked further behind the suit of armor as the redhead ran past him toward the Charms corridor. Then he stepped out and headed down the stairs, skipping the vanishing step, back to the Slytherin common room for his free period.

Malfoy was there, holding court around the fireplace. Harold didn't try to pay attention to the arrogant boy while he re-read the first chapter of Standard Book of Spells Grade 1, but he was forced to overhear scraps of sentences every time the blond raised his voice.

"--should have been in our year." ... "--definitely on the list. My father says--"

Harold rolled his eyes, snapped his book shut, and left the common room, deciding to spend the rest of his free lesson on his bed in the first year dormitory.

Herbology with the Ravenclaws wasn't bad. Professor Sprout, a portly witch with a strong voice, knew her way around plants and fungi, perhaps even better than Uncle Severus did, and she didn't stand for any nonsense in her class. He looked forward to the lessons three times a week.

During lunch, Harold looked over his schedule again. Aside from Herbology, Transfiguration and Charms took up most of the timeslots throughout the week. Luckily, Astronomy was on Friday nights, so he wouldn't have to get up early after staying up past midnight to look at the stars. History of Magic was twice a week, grouped with Defense Against the Dark Arts.

The next few days flew by for the most part, except when they seemed to come to a screeching halt during History of Magic while Professor Binns, one of the resident ghosts, droned on and on about Goblin rebellions. Then time sped back up with Defense Against the Dark Arts, where Professor Quirrel stammered his way through stories about African zombies and Romanian vampires in a classroom that reeked of garlic.

By Friday morning, Harold still hadn't figured out where to find food for Salazar. In the end, he asked the Slytherin Prefect, Gemma Farley, over breakfast in the Great Hall. She pointed at the staff table to the giant man who had escorted the first years from the train station and taken them to Hogwarts in tiny boats. He was the gamekeeper, Rubeus Hagrid. Harold resolved to seek him out right after Potions with the Gryffindors. Promptly at eight, the owls swooped into the Great Hall and delivered their parcels all over the four house tables. A chubby barn owl dropped the Daily Prophet in Blaise Zabini's lap while Malfoy received his daily package from his mother on the opposite side of the table. Harold glanced over to his right, skimming the front page to see if there was anything interesting enough to merit asking Blaise to borrow the paper after the other boy was finished. What he saw made his heart stop.

Hero No Show!

After long suspense and a nail-biting wait, the expected appearance of the Boy-Who-Lived at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has failed to materialize. The --

Harold couldn't read the rest of the article because Blaise shook the newspaper and folded it over to read the Sports news on page three. He tried not to panic. This was not completely unexpected. The Prophet ran articles about Harry Potter every time someone thought they'd seen the Boy-Who-Lived at their local greengrocer. He grabbed his goblet of orange juice and drained it in a few quick gulps. This was just another one of those articles. Things would die down quickly. People would just assume that Hero Harry Potter was too good for state schooling, even if it was Hogwarts, and move on with their lives. Everything would be fine. Nobody knew about Harold Prince. He glanced at the staff table where Uncle Severus was sitting next to Professor McGonagall, who was sitting next to Professor Dumbledore at the center of the table. For the first time he wondered how many of the teachers knew his true identity. He would have to ask Uncle Severus about that. Maybe he could pull him aside after Potions.

The Potions classroom looked the same as it had when he'd left it on Monday morning: ingredients were stacked in alphabetical order on the shelves near the blackboard; preserved specimen of animals sat in glass jars around the walls; and the enormous desk at the front of the room was empty, except for a copy of Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger.

Two straight rows of work benches sat a little distance from the teacher's desk. Harold noticed immediately that the Houses kept to themselves with the Gryffindors on the left side of the room and the Slytherins on the right, closer to the exit. Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson had taken the bench closest to the front with Crabbe and Goyle behind them; Harold sat next to Blaise in the third row, and behind them were Theodore Nott and Millie Bulstrode, followed by Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass at the last table in the back. Over on the Gryffindor side, the boys were all crammed into the back tables with the girls up in the front.

Uncle Severus appeared in the door next to the blackboard, gave them all a quick once over as he stepped behind the teacher's desk, and started to take the roll call. He stopped when he reached the name of the Gryffindor redhead with the freckles who had gotten into trouble on Monday morning: Ronald Weasley.  
"Any relation to the twin brothers Fred and George Weasley?" asked Uncle Severus in his silkiest voice.

The redhead gulped and his face went a bright shade of pink before he answered in a squeaky voice.

"They're my brothers, sir." 

Harold remembered Malfoy sneering the last name Weasley when a set of redheaded twins had held up everyone at the start-of-term feast with their howling rendition of the school song.

"I see," said Uncle Severus, his eyes narrowing for a moment, before he looked down at his list and finished the roll call with Blaise Zabini.

Then he looked up again and took a deep breath, his dark gaze sweeping over all of them.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

Harold ducked his head and smiled. As his uncle went into a speech about softly simmering cauldrons and the power of liquids that could bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses, Harold mouthed silently along with the familiar phrases. Until his uncle said something that made his head snap back up.

"Unless," he said, his thin lips curling into a nasty sneer, "you are as big a bunch of dunderheads as I expect you all to be."

Harold raised both brows and looked over at Blaise who returned the gesture with an unconcerned shrug. It seemed he had chosen his Potions partner wisely. Behind them, Millie Bulstrode was chewing nervously on her bottom lip, while Draco Malfoy in the front row looked as arrogant as usual with his hair gelled back and his pointy nose stuck up in the air.

"Weasley!"

The sudden bark made Harold jump.

"What would I get if I were to add sloth brain to an infusion of wormwood containing powdered root of asphodel?"

Harold pressed his lips together to prevent himself from blurting out the answer. He looked over at Weasley, who had turned an even brighter shade of pink than before. His face now clashed horribly with his hair.

"I don't know, sir," he said.

Uncle Severus clicked his tongue.

"How about this? What is the main use of a bezoar and where can it be found?"

That was the easiest question his uncle had ever asked. Harold looked over at the redhead and saw that the boy's expression was blank of anything but utter embarrassment.

Malfoy snickered, and soon Crabbe and Goyle joined in. Harold doubted that either of the two thick henchmen actually knew the answer.

"I don't know, sir," said Weasley again.

"Did you think," snarled Uncle Severus, "that there was no need to open a book before coming here, Weasley? Did you think receiving a letter from Hogwarts was enough of a certificate of knowledge by itself?"

"No, sir!"

Harold placed his hand over his eyes and lowered his head. What a dunderhead.

"What's the difference then," Uncle Severus asked silkily, "between aconite, wolfsbane, and monkshood?"

"I don't know, sir," said Weasley for a third time.

The Gryffindors were glaring daggers at Uncle Severus as if it was his fault that Weasley didn't know the answer to the simplest of questions. Malfoy scoffed and raised his hand. Uncle Severus's head snapped around and his glare seemed to mellow a bit as he looked over to their side of the room.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"Aconite, wolfsbane, and monkshood are all the same plant," said Malfoy with a superior smirk. "And a bezoar is a stone from the stomach of a goat that cures almost all poisons."

"Very good, Mr. Malfoy. That's two points for Slytherin."

Harold rolled his eyes. He noticed Malfoy hadn't answered his uncle's first question. However, if it was this easy to get points for his House, he was not about to pass up the opportunity. He raised his hand.

"Mr. Prince?"

"Sloth brain, powdered root of asphodel, and an infusion of wormwood are three out of the four ingredients that make up the Draught of Living Death, a sleeping potion that is so powerful it was often misused for murder and suicide."

"Correct," said his uncle. "Another two points for Slytherin. Is there a reason none of you are taking notes?"

Everyone, including Harold, scrambled to take out their quills and parchment. Uncle Severus raised his voice over the noise.

"Today, we will prepare a simple potion to cure boils. You will need your pewter cauldron, dried nettles, snake fangs, horned slugs, and porcupine quills. Instructions are on the blackboard." He snapped his wand at the blackboard where his neat handwriting appeared in white chalk. "And you will work in pairs with the person sitting next to you. Begin now."

Harold let Blaise take care of weighing the dried nettles while he crushed the snake fangs. They worked silently and followed the instructions diligently as Uncle Severus went up and down the corridor between the work benches, checking on everyone's potions and correcting their various mistakes.

"Now there's a perfect example," he said in front of Malfoy's cauldron. "Please note that this is exactly how you should prepare your horned slugs. They need to be stewed, not simply boiled. What on--"

A loud hissing came from the back of the room as great clouds of acid green smoke billowed through the air.

One of the Gryffindors had managed to melt his cauldron into a twisted blob and the potion was seeping across the stone floor, eating through people's shoes.

"Quick!" Harold shouted, jumping onto his stool. "Up."

Malfoy had already climbed onto his stool and was helping Pansy up onto hers. As everyone else did the same, Harold turned to look for the boy who had caused the accident.

The sandy-haired Gryffindor next to Weasley was covered in the failed potion from head to toe. His eyes rolled back as ugly red boils sprouted all over his face and hands.

"Finnigan, you dunderhead!" growled Uncle Severus as he Vanished the potion with one sweep of his wand and caught the boy before he collapsed. "Did you add the quills before you took the cauldron off the fire?"

He handed the moaning boy off to Weasley, who was standing next to his partner, white as a sheet but otherwise unharmed.

"You, Weasley, why didn't you stop him? Did you think you could just sit back and let him do all the work? One point taken from Gryffindor. Now, get him up to the hospital wing!"

Once everyone had climbed off their stools, things quieted down for the remaining hour. Slytherin gained another ten points for having brewed two perfect batches of Boil Curing potion between Malfoy, Pansy, Blaise, and Harold. Gryffindor lost another five points for talking in class, failing to clean their station, and, according to Uncle Severus, nearly killing everyone by stirring the potion in the wrong direction. Harold was pretty sure that last one was a fib, but he didn't mind seeing the Gryffindors suffer a bit.

By the time he climbed the steps into the entrance hall, Harold was in good spirits. He had earned his House seven points total so far. If things kept up like this, Slytherin would win the House Cup for sure.

Unfortunately, he was unable to find the gamekeeper during morning break, so he had to postpone his plan to talk to the man until lunch time. Transfiguration with McGonagall passed quickly, even though Malfoy was trying his best to hold up the entire class by showing off the dull needle he had managed to transfigure from a match stick. Then came Charms and a much needed blow to Malfoy's ego, when Harold was the first to correctly identify four of the seven major Household Charms. After a quick lunch, he approached the staff table once again. This time, almost all the teachers were present. Luckily, the gamekeeper sat on the furthest end of the table, so it was easy to approach him.

"Excuse me, sir?" Harold said, trying not to stare at the man's hands that were twice the size of the dinner plate in front of him.

"Huh?"

The gamekeeper looked up from his shepherd's pie, glanced around, and then finally looked down to where Harold stood beside the table. His tiny black eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, and there were bits of carrot and mashed potato stuck in his wild beard.

"Oh, there you are," he said, wiping the crumbs from his beard with one swipe of his enormous hand. "What can I do fer yeh?"

Harold gulped. "I need help with feeding my familiar, and my prefect, Gemma Farley, said you were the best person to ask."

"She did?" The man beamed an even bigger smile as his cheeks turned rosy. "Tell yer wha', le' me finish me pie, an' I'll meet yeh a' the front door. We'll get yeh sorted."

"Thank you, sir," Harold said sincerely.

He waited quietly by the entrance door, and it did not take long before the gamekeeper stepped out of the Great Hall.

"Come on then. I keep most everythin' I need 'round me cabin."

"Thank you, sir," Harold said again.

"Nah, just Hagrid's fine."

They walked across the grounds toward a small wooden cabin near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Harold had to jog to keep up with the gamekeeper's long steps.

"So wha's yer familiar then?"

"It's an African boomslang, sir. I mean, Hagrid."

Harold had never met an adult, other than Moll, who didn't want to be addressed formally.

"Oh," said Hagrid with a glint in his eyes. "Male or female?"

"It's a male. His name is Salazar."

"Hah!" Hagrid laughed, clapping one huge hand on his enormous thigh. "Tha's the righ' name fer a snake if I ever 'eard one."

"Thank you, I thought the same thing."

As they got close, Harold could hear a frantic scratching. He jumped when a deep, rumbling bark came from the other side of the rickety door.

"Oy," shouted Hagrid, "Quit yer racket!"  

He opened the door a crack, and a huge black shadow shot out like lightening and into Hagrid's arms.

"Who's a good boy, eh? Who's a good boy?"

Harold gaped at the gamekeeper who cradled the boarhound in his arms like a tiny puppy, scratching behind his ears.

"This is Fang, he's a good boy. He jus' gets a bit excited."

"Ah," said Harold.

They stepped into the cabin and Hagrid let Fang go who immediately bounded over to Harold, sniffed his face, huffed out a scorching hot breath, and gave Harold's cheek a long, wet lick from chin to forehead before he trotted off to his blanket by the fire. Harold stood frozen for a moment. Then he wiped his face with the sleeve of his robes.

"He likes yeh!" said Hagrid delightedly. "Tha's a compliment. Fang knows who's good people. Make yerself at home."  

Harold took a seat on the edge of the large bed in the corner, admiring the patchwork quilt. Some of the patches had tiny flowers on it like the ones on Moll's curtains, while others looked like they were made from old flannel shirts.

Hagrid poured tea into large mugs and placed a plate full of rock cakes on the table. When the first bite nearly broke a tooth, Harold dunked the hard raisin covered treat into his tea and waited patiently for it to dissolve.

"What've yeh bin feedin' 'im then?" Hagrid asked as he chewed on his own rock cake, crumbs flying everywhere.

"Mostly frogs from the river where I live," said Harold. "Sometimes field mice, if I could catch one. He eats about once a week. Newts would be great, but they're so hard to catch." He pulled the soggy lump from his tea and sucked it between his teeth; they didn't taste half bad like this.

As they discussed the various ways to procure food for Salazar, Fang started to snore loudly by the fire, drooling all over his blanket. Hagrid said he would be happy to accompany Harold into the forest to look for newts and help him catch frogs. He also suggested to add boobrie chicks to Salazar's diet, and promised to bring a few of those by the Potions classroom later.

When Harold shifted the tea cozy to make room for his mug on the table, he noticed a cutting from the Daily Prophet under it. He picked it up and read over the short article providing an update on a break-in attempt at Gringotts.

"Oh, I remember reading about this," he said, holding up the newspaper clipping. "It's really strange, isn't it?"

He had read the article in the Daily Prophet when it had initially happened. The reason it had stuck with him was that it was the first attempt to break into the wizard bank in a long time, and it had happened on Harold's birthday.

"Who would be crazy enough to try and break into Gringotts? And then for it to turn out the vault had been emptied the same day. I wonder what was in it. They say it was probably Dark wizards, so maybe it was a really powerful dark artifact? What do you think?"

Harold, like almost everyone, loved a good mystery. He was surprised to see an uncomfortable expression cross Hagrid's face as the gamekeeper looked around the cabin.

"Yeah, crazy," he said vaguely, placing down his mug and lifting the plate of rock cakes from the table. "Go on, have another one. They're delicious, aren' they?"

Harold took one and dunked it into his tea. When a booming bell rang through the air, he jerked and dropped the hard cake into the mug.

"Oh, no! I'm going to be late for Herbology!"

He jumped up, nearly spilling tea everywhere, and hastily put his mug on the table with a loud clang, startling Fang awake.

"Hang on," said Hagrid, "I'll get yeh a note for Professor Sprout. I'm sure she'll understand. Lots of bark, no' much bite that one. Like Fang." Hagrid scribbled a note and handed it to Harold. "But don' tell 'er I said that."  

"I won't," Harold said in a rush, "Thanks. Bye!"

He ran out the door and across the grounds, even though he knew there was no way he could make it from Hagrid's hut to the greenhouses on the other side of the castle before the next bell rang.


	8. The Wizard Duel

Hagrid had been right about Professor Sprout. When she read the note, she accepted the excuse with a nod and didn't deduct any House points before sending Harold to his seat next to Hermione.

"Where were you?" she whispered.

"Gamekeeper's hut," he whispered back.

Then they stopped talking, because Professor Sprout cleared her throat and stared at them with deeply furrowed brows. 

"As I said, today we will be learning about Devil's Snare."

She reached under the teacher's workbench and came back up with a large, cylindrical box that she set down in front of her.

"These plants like dark, damp environs; so this brightly lit greenhouse is not their favorite place to be. That's why I've got them in this container here for now." She gently patted the top of the container, and something inside thumped back angrily, making the box shake under her palm.

"They're not the friendliest sort. Devil's Snare grows in thick, long tendrils. It's a very aggressive plant that likes to strangle the other plants around it to get more room and more nutrition for itself. I will show you this in a moment, but before I do, take a couple of notes, so you know what to look for after I take off the lid. I won't be able to keep it out long since the Snare makes no difference between plant and person."

Everyone pulled out their quills and parchment and wrote down the notes Professor Sprout gave them on how to recognize a Devil's Snare by the texture of its tendrils (dry and springy), how to move around it (as widely as possible), what to do when caught in a Devil's Snare (relax and repel with light or fire), and how to distinguish it from its harmless sister plant, the Flitterbloom (that won't try to strangle you).

"I'm going to dim the lights," she said. "Everybody, step back and stand as still as possible." She pulled a long, thick branch of firewood from below her workbench and showed it to the class. "Once I open the lid, I will hand this log to the Snare. Observe closely how the vines react."

Professor Sprout stepped back and pulled her wand from her robes. She pointed it at the ceiling and whispered, "Nox."

The glass panels around her went dark, but sunshine continued to stream through the rest of the greenhouse. She waved her wand again and the container around the Devil's Snare opened with a soft click. As the lid moved aside, the plant underneath spread its tentacles, reaching in all directions. Harold stood very still. Even Hermione was motionless and quiet, staring wide-eyed at the searching tendrils. Professor Sprout waved her wand a third time, muttering another spell.

"Now watch," she said, levitating the thick branch closer to the Devil's Snare.

One long tendril slithered up into the air and touched the bobbing log, winding itself once, twice, three times, and more around it, covering the entire length in the writhing grip of the Devil's Snare. They could all hear wood crunching and cracking as the tendril continued to writhe until, all of a sudden, it released its grip, raining wood chips and sawdust onto the surface of the table -- all that was left of the log.  

"Finite Incantatem."

As the greenhouse flooded with light, the Devil's Snare curled into itself, cringing and wriggling until it disappeared back inside the container with a final wave of Professor Sprout's wand.

They finished the hour, discussing what they had seen and how to best avoid Devil's Snare in the wild ("Don't sneak into the Forbidden Forest!").

The moment the bell rang, and Professor Sprout excused them from class, the seal on Hermione's lips was broken.

"What were you doing at the gamekeeper's hut?" she asked, walking next to him out of the greenhouse.

"I need to feed my snake," said Harold, "so I asked the gamekeeper how to go about getting frogs, and newts, and such."

"Oh, bleh," Hermione made a face, gagging silently. "Just why did you have to pick a snake of all things? Aren't they all slimy and disgusting?"

Harold scowled. Sometimes, Hermione could be a real pain in the neck, especially when she was showing her ignorance about things that were obvious to someone who was raised around magic.

"Your Muggle roots are showing," he said coldly. "First of all, snakes aren't slimy. They're reptiles, not amphibians. Second of all, there is nothing disgusting about an animal that eats other animals to live. Third of all, they're only the most useful familiar to have aside from, maybe, toads for Potions ingredients, and, fourth of all, if you don't like snakes then leave me alone!"

He stormed off as fast as he could, hoping his robes billowed menacingly behind him. Hermione might be book-smart, but she certainly had a lot to learn if she ever wanted to be a real witch.

Harold spent the afternoon with Salazar in the Potions classroom. Hagrid showed up about an hour before dinner, carrying a cardboard box with three tiny gray fluff balls that he explained were the boobrie chicks. Harold let him watch the feeding, and Salazar was ecstatic about the new addition to his diet. It was really difficult to pretend he didn't understand when Salazar kept hissing at him to thank the friendly giant for his fancy feast.

Over the weekend, Harold was busy with his homework, re-reading chapter two of Magical Theory in front of the common room fireplace, or working on his Transfiguration essay with Blaise in the library. It was there that Hermione showed up on Sunday afternoon with a box full of newts in her hands.

"Hagrid helped me find them," she said as she quickly pushed the box at Harold. "He said Salazar would like these."

Then she wiped her hands on her robes, made a face, spun around, and left at a fast clip.

"Apology accepted!" Harold called after her.

"Shh!" hissed the librarian, Madam Pince, from her desk at the entrance.

Harold and Blaise ducked their heads back over their essays. They still had three feet left to write on the dangers of transfiguring a liquid into a solid and vice versa.

When they walked back into the Slytherin common room before dinner, there was a commotion on the chairs around the fire. Malfoy was holding court, surrounded by Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson.

"And then I zoomed up into the air, so high up the bristles froze and my handle was slippery as ice, but it was the only way, and vroom!" He made a whooshing noise, one hand swooping over his opposite arm. "I went over it, upside down, and that Muggle hellish-chopper went right underneath me, and nearly cut off the tail of my broom. But I got away."

"It's called a helicopter, Malfoy," said Harold, rolling his eyes as he collapsed onto one of the empty chairs in front of the fire.

"Of course," said Malfoy, smirking coldly. "You would know, having grown up like a Muggle."

"I didn't grow up like a Muggle," Harold replied, narrowing his eyes at the arrogant blond. "I merely enjoyed a well-rounded education that includes a large vocabulary from both worlds."

"Right," scoffed Malfoy. "Let's see where that vocabulary gets you when you sit on a broom for the first time on Thursday."

"What?" Harold sat up straight, gripping the arms of his chair.

"Flying lessons start Thursday afternoon," said Malfoy, pointing a skinny forefinger at the notice board by the entrance.

"Yes!"

Harold jumped up, all exhaustion and irritation with Malfoy forgotten as he bounded over to confirm for himself. His eyes lit up as he read the notice.

First Year Flying Lessons!

Lessons with Madam Hooch will start on Thursday, September 12 on the lawn south of the Quidditch pitch. School brooms will be provided. Please leave your familiars and school equipment in your common rooms. The roster is as follows:

Period 1, 3:30 pm to 4:30 pm: Gryffindor and Slytherin

Period 2, 4:30 pm to 5:30 pm: Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw

Harold groaned. Why couldn't they have paired up with the Ravenclaws or even with the Hufflepuffs? But it didn't matter. Nothing could dampen his mood. On Thursday afternoon, he would finally be allowed to get on a broom and fly. And Uncle Severus wouldn't be able to say a word about it because they were official school lessons.

"Yes!" Harold said again, pumping his fist.

 

 

Time stretched like Drooble's Best Blowing Gum between Monday and Thursday until the very last bit between the end of Charms and the beginning of their first flying lesson. The Slytherins only had ten minutes to drop off their things in the common room and race back out of the castle to the wide stretch of lawn sloping down from the Quidditch pitch toward the lake. They still made it there before any of the Gryffindors showed up.

Twenty brooms were laid out on the softly swaying grass. Harold's fingers twitched, and he had to remind himself not to pick one up before the teacher got there. A breeze ruffled his hair as he looked from left to right. Everyone had picked their broom and lined up next to it. Millie Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis were at the end, chatting up a storm. Theo Nott stood between them and the hulking forms of Vince Crabbe and Greg Goyle with his arms crossed, looking annoyed. Pansy Parkinson was sidling up to Malfoy who stood on Harold's left side, looking smug, while Blaise stood on Harold's right side, looking bored.

"These aren't even any good," said Malfoy. "Look at them, they're Cleansweeps. They must be older than we are. My father says--"

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy," said Theo Nott, leaning forward to scowl down the line as Harold groaned and Blaise rolled his eyes. 

They'd all had just about enough of listening to Malfoy go on about his father. The only ones who continued to nod their heads and smile were Crabbe and Goyle, and of course Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy's biggest fan.

"Why don't you shut up, Nott?" she snarled, stepping protectively in front of Malfoy.

"Here we go again," muttered Blaise.  

Harold shook his head and took a couple of steps backwards to make room for their bickering. However, the move brought him unintentionally closer to a different argument.

"But I don't get it. What's the point without brooms?" asked Weasley, marching towards them next to a tall black boy with short, curly hair.

"The point is to maneuver the ball with just your feet and kick it in the goal, and that takes just as much skill as riding around on a broomstick."

The Gryffindors had finally trailed in -- and not a minute too soon.

Madam Hooch arrived, broomstick in hand. She had short, gray hair, sun-tanned skin, and yellow eyes like a hawk.

"Well," she barked at the Gryffindors who were standing around in a clump. "What are you waiting for? Go stand next to a broom." 

While Harold was loath to admit it, Malfoy had a point. Looking down at his broomstick, he could see the twigs standing out at odd angles, and the handle looked like it had suffered the sweaty grips of too many first year hands. It definitely couldn't compare to the shiny new Nimbus Two Thousand he had seen in the window at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Madam Hooch stepped in front of them and laid her broom down on the ground.

"Now, stick your right hand out over your broom," she said, demonstrating the motion with her hand, "and say 'Up!'"

The broomstick jumped into the air like an eager puppy.

Everyone followed her instructions, and Harold's broom jumped into his hand just like Madam Hooch's had done for her. Blaise and Malfoy were also holding theirs. Parkinson had less luck. Her broom kept twitching on the ground as she commanded it to come "Up!" in an increasingly irritated tone. The brooms beside Crabbe and Goyle didn't even twitch.

When everyone had their brooms in hand, one way or the other, Madam Hooch demonstrated how to mount them.

"You want to keep a firm grip and always straddle the broom from the left, like so, and then seat yourself as centered as possible." 

She stepped back off her broom and carried it at her side as she walked up and down their lines and corrected people's grips.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you trying to break your wrists?" She clicked her tongue and changed his grip. "Knuckles go under, never over the shaft."

Every boy in the class, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, ducked their head and snickered under their breath, except for Malfoy, who was too irritated at having been corrected about how to handle his broomstick.

"Now," shouted Madam Hooch. "To rise up on a broom, you kick off the ground and point the handle up. To come back down, you lean forward and aim toward the ground. At a shallow angle!" She mounted her broom and demonstrated, tipping the handle just slightly downward. "I don't want to see any attempts at a Wronski Feint, accidentally or on purpose. When I blow my whistle, kick off, rise a few feet, and then come back down slowly. On my mark."

She blew the whistle and everyone kicked off.

"Oh! OH! OH!"

The boy who had argued with Weasley earlier had kicked off too hard and was shooting upward like a bottle rocket. He rose so high up into the air that he looked no bigger than a crow against the sun. Madam Hooch was going after him, but her broom could not keep up.

"Tip the handle!" she shouted.

Unfortunately, he must have tipped the handle upward instead of down because everyone watched with open mouths as the broom spun backward and did one, two, three, loops before it turned straight down and plummeted at maximum speed.

"Pull up!" Madam Hooch screamed, but the broom kept zooming toward the ground. "Up!"

The broom twisted again and spiraled out of control, rolling sideways, over and over, still going down but now at a shallow angle.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, just let go!" Madam Hooch shouted when the broom was just a few feet off the ground.

The Gryffindor pulled both hands off the handle and fell backward onto the grass, tumbling a few times while his broom kept going toward the Quidditch pitch. He sat up with a groan as Madam Hooch flew up to him, while everyone else landed their brooms without incident.

"What did I say about attempting a Wronski Feint?" she said sharply as she stepped off her own broom.

"I don't even know what that is," said the boy. "I play football, not Quidditch, and I hate these stupid brooms." He tried to stand up, but when he put weight on his left foot, he gasped and fell back down. "And I think I broke my ankle," he added miserably.

"What's your name, child?" asked Madam Hooch.

"Dean Thomas," he said.

"Well, Mr. Thomas. I think we'd better get you to Madam Pomfrey so she can have a look at that ankle."

She helped him to his feet, supported his weight on her shoulders, and turned back to the rest of the class.

"All brooms stay on the ground until I get back. If I catch even one of you up in the air, you'll be expelled before you can say 'Quidditch' and you'll lose so many House points your grandchildren will still be trying to make up for it."

Harold's face fell as Madam Hooch slowly walked off toward the castle, holding up Dean Thomas, who was hopping on one leg beside her. They only had an hour for flying lessons, and there was no way she would get back in time at the pace they were going. He barely even remembered what it felt like being in the air because he had been too busy staring at the Gryffindor trying to kill himself by broom crash.

"Great," he muttered under his breath.

"Did you see his face?" Malfoy said, snickering. "He looked like he was going to cry."

Crabbe and Goyle guffawed while Pansy Parkinson tittered with exaggerated amusement.

"Shut up, Malfoy!" snapped one of the Gryffindor girls, flipping a long dark braid over her shoulder.

"What? Is he your boyfriend?" Pansy sneered. "Figures you'd be a Mud-blood lover, Patil. It runs in the family, doesn't it?"

"Oh, get stuffed, Parkinson!" shouted Finnigan as Weasley said, "Yeah. Leave her alone!" and both of them stepped in front of the Patil girl.

Tracey Davis cackled. "Real men there, going two against one to fight Pansy, or were you going to queue up to defend Parvati's honor?"

"I'd beat her one-on-one, any day," shouted Weasley.

"Don't you dare, you brute!" Pansy squeaked and hid behind Malfoy's shoulder. "Save me, Draco."

"Me?" he said. "You got yourself into this."

"He said he's going to beat me!"

Weasley's face went bright red as his words finally caught up with him. "In a contest! Fair and square! I'd never--" He looked around, panicking, at his fellow Gryffindors. "You knew what I meant, right?"

The other Gryffindors bobbed their heads and grumbled in agreement, in full support of their House mate.

"See?" said Weasley.

"Oh, I see, alright," drawled Malfoy. "I see a coward who thinks it's a big deal to win against a girl."

"You take that back, you slimy git." Weasley's face was scarlet as he bristled, stepping up right in front of Malfoy.

"Make me."

"Fine! You and me, right here, right now."

Malfoy scoffed. "I'm not going to soil my hands with Weasel blood."

"Then race him!" shouted Finnigan.

Echoes of "Yeah!" and "Race him!" went through the Gryffindors.

Infected by the crowd, Crabbe and Goyle added their own shouts of "Yeah!" and Pansy squeaked, "Do it, darling!"

Malfoy spun around and glared at them so hard he nearly went cross-eyed, but then he combed a hand through his hair, nodded, and raised his chin.

"Alright," he said, turning back to Weasley. "First one to the Quidditch pitch and back wins."

"You got it. You'll eat your words, Malfoy."

"Hardly. If anything, you'll eat my dust!"

"I'll give the signal!" chirped Pansy.

Harold rolled his eyes and when the Gryffindors crowded around Weasley at the designated start line, he seized his chance.

"Are you mad?" he asked, placing himself in front of Malfoy's broom.

"Out of the way, Prince." The blond waved his hand, swatting at him as if he were a fly.

"You realize," Harold said in his silkiest voice, "that this stint could lose us the House Cup."

"Only if we get caught."

"It's not worth it," he growled. "Just stop, and figure out something else later."

"Move," Malfoy said grandly, pushing him out of the way.

"Don't do this, Malfoy."

"Bite me."

"Ready?" Pansy twirled around, dancing in front of them between the two brooms. She raised her wand.

Harold shook his head as he stepped away from Malfoy's broom.

"You'll regret this," he said quietly.

"Se-et!" Parkinson stretched the single syllable as long as her breath could hold it.

Harold pulled his wand out of his robes.

"Go!" Parkinson shouted at the same time Harold pointed his wand at Malfoy's legs and whispered, "Colloshoo!"

Weasley pushed off and shot in a straight line toward the Quidditch pitch. Malfoy was stuck to the ground, unable to move his feet, with his broom sitting uselessly between his legs.

"What the-- My feet!"

Harold smirked. He would have to thank his uncle again for teaching him the Stickfast Hex. Malfoy's shoes would be glued to the ground until Harold was good and ready to release him. Slytherin would not lose any points today, at least not over something as stupid as blustering Gryffindors looking for trouble.

"You!"

Malfoy looked livid when he twisted around on his broomstick to glare at Harold, but he didn't get the chance to say anything else.

"RONALD WEASLEY! YOU WILL LAND THAT BROOM AT ONCE!"

Professor McGonagall was running across the lawn. When she reached Weasley, already on his way back from the Quidditch pitch and half-way toward the class, she talked at him furiously for a minute and dragged him off toward the castle.

As the Gryffindors hunched their shoulders and grumbled about lost House points, Harold raised his brows at Malfoy with a pointed stare. The blond pulled a face that made it ever so tempting to leave him stuck to the ground, but Harold relented when Pansy, trying to help, nearly ripped off Malfoy's leg.

 

 

At dinnertime, the Slytherins were equally divided into two groups: those who held with Malfoy, saying it was unacceptable for a fellow Slytherin to betray him in such a manner; and those who agreed with Harold, making it clear that losing the House Cup over a petty rivalry with a lesser House was not an option.

"I demand satisfaction," cried Malfoy over a forkful of mashed potatoes and roast chicken.

"This is ridiculous," said Gemma Farley, the prefect, lowering her own fork. "But if that's the only way, fine. All parties involved, come find me after dinner in the common room. Now, can we please finish dinner in peace?"

"What is she talking about?" asked Harold.

Blaise rolled his eyes and swallowed a bite of beef casserole before he answered.

"Old Slytherin tradition, wizard's duel in the common room: no teachers, no snitching, no permanent damage. Whatever it is, it's settled after the duel is over."

Harold sighed and muttered under his breath, "No arguing with tradition."

Blaise chuckled. "I hope you know a few more good hexes, or Malfoy is going to wipe the floor with you."

"Oh, I know a few," Harold replied with a sinister smile.

As the news of the duel traveled around the Slytherin table, things quieted down and everyone was able to finish the meal in more or less amiable silence. Harold had to admit that there was merit to any system where a dispute could be settled so quickly with such little effort. He wondered if the other Houses had similar rules and traditions. He would have to ask Hermione and Neville about it the next time he got the chance to speak to them.

"You won't believe this!"

A breathless third year boy ran up to them and stumbled into the table between Miles Bletchley and Terence Higgs. Harold noticed an equally flustered girl joining the Ravenclaws one table over.

"What?" asked Higgs, the Slytherin Seeker, making room for the newcomer.

"They made the kid Chaser!"

Blank faces greeted the vague announcement all around.

"Gryffindor," said the boy. "They made that Weasley kid a Chaser--"

"No way!" said Bletchley.

"But he's a first year!" said Higgs.

"I know, right?" said the boy, rolling his eyes. "Johnson's going to play Seeker, and they didn't even lose any House points! You can see for yourself, they've still got four hundred and eighty-three since last Friday."

"Typical," spat Marcus Flint, the Quidditch Captain and one of the three Chasers on the Slytherin team. "Didn't you say Hooch threatened to expel anyone she caught in the air?"

"I guess it doesn't count," said Malfoy with a sullen shrug, "if she didn't see it herself or if the culprit is from their favorite House."

Everyone scowled at the Gryffindor table. It was obvious this was not the only incident of preferential treatment for the red-and-gold. For the first time, Harold really understood why his uncle had always hated the other House so much. It wasn't just that they were bullies and rule-breakers; it was that the teachers turned a blind eye and let them get away with it.

Two tables over, Weasley was grinning unabashedly, surrounded by a large group of fellow Gryffindors clapping his shoulders and congratulating him.

Blaise snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Can you believe that oaf is now the youngest House player in a century?"

"Don't worry," said Gemma coldly. "We'll catch them slinking around the hallways and make them bleed those points, one at a time if we have to."

The other Slytherin prefects nodded in agreement. Looking at their determined faces, the silver and green badges on their chests seemed to gleam more brightly in the light of the floating candles.

Once the dessert dishes had disappeared, the Slytherins left their table in small groups and avoided drawing attention to the fact that everyone was headed to the same place: the Slytherin common room.

Harold took his time, ambling down the stairs, and checked in on Salazar in the Potions classroom before he returned to the blank wall exactly thirty-nine-and-a-half steps away from the corner of the corridor and muttered the password.

When he stepped through the secret entrance, the first thing he noticed was that the common room was packed. Every Slytherin, from first to seventh year, was crammed into the cavernous space. The high-backed chairs by the fireplace had been set up in a wide semi-circle, facing the middle of the room, providing seating for some of the spectators. Everyone else gathered around the edges of the room, completing the circle around the impromptu arena.

Harold walked over to where Gemma Farley was standing with Draco Malfoy, in the center of the whole circus.

"There he is," she said as she spotted him.

"What took you so long?" asked Malfoy, leering at Harold with a nasty smile. "Was ickle Harry scared?"

"You wish." he said. "And it's Harold."

"Whatever." Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Come on, Prince. Let's get this over with."

Malfoy pulled out his wand, but Gemma stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Balance your broom there, Seeker."

She grinned, took a step sideways, and placed her other hand on Harold's shoulder, turning them to face the crowd.

"Since we haven't had one of these since back in '87 -- I'm referring, of course, to the infamous Chocolate Moose incident." She waggled her brows meaningfully at the older students, who nodded sagely and exchanged a few guilty grins. "Let's go over the rules real quick."

The crowd quieted down, especially the younger students who gazed up expectantly at their favorite prefect. Gemma graced them with a brilliant smile before she continued.

"Combatants will use wands only, no direct contact allowed. You will stand back-to-back in the middle of the arena, walk ten paces, and, on my signal, turn and fire. Use simple hexes and mild curses only; nothing too nasty or permanently damaging. The duel continues until the first combatant falls to the ground. Last man standing is the winner. Once the duel is over, the incident that caused the duel cannot be repeated or ever be brought up in an argument again." She looked up into the air, as she always did when she was trying to remember a part of her speech. "Oh, and any injuries sustained during the duel must be allowed to heal naturally. Do you understand and agree to the rules?"

She jostled both Harold and Malfoy as she peered down into their faces. Harold nodded, and so did Malfoy. 

"Goodie!" She clapped each of them on one shoulder and pushed them into the middle of the room where she made them stand back-to-back.

"Ready?" she asked, but then, before they could answer, she smacked her forehead. "Oh, fudge. I almost forgot! We need a look-out!"

Gemma looked around searchingly as everyone ducked their head and tried to disappear into the background. Nobody stepped forward. She huffed and put her hands on her hips.

"Pansy," barked Terence Higgs, "go outside and stand guard. Warn us if any teachers are coming. Even if it's Snape."

"But why me?" she whined.

"Because you're a first year, and I'm tellin' you to. Now, shoo!"

Pansy sniffed, crossed her arms, and walked off, stomping her feet every step of the way until the wall closed up behind her.

"Okay!" said Gemma, clapping her hands together. "Now we're ready."

Harold squared his shoulders, slipped his wand out of his robes, and took a deep breath.

"Start walking on my count. One ... two ... three ..."

His uncle had taught him dozens of hexes and curses.

"Four ... five ... six ..."

He would not be the first to fall.

"Seven ... eight ..."

He could start with a Stinging Hex.

"... Nine ... ten."

He was prepared.

"Turn. Fire!"

"Av--"

"Ictus!"

Harold ducked as Malfoy's stinger zoomed over his head. He had no idea what hex he had started to form and no time to think about it. A second stinger zapped him in the chin.

"Cornulinguis!" he shouted with a snap of his wand.

The bright flash hit Malfoy square in the mouth.

As Harold's tongue swelled from the stinger, Malfoy's lips parted and a pink horn protruded from between them. With neither of them able to perform verbal hexes, there was only one thing left to do.

They swished and snapped their wands at the same time. Blue light shot out from the tips. The twin curses struck, blasted them off their feet, and hurled them across the room into the gasping crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone, again, for your interest in the story, and for the kind feedback and kudos. Please keep it coming. This chapter introduces a side of Slytherin that has never been so much as hinted at in canon but which I think would be compliant with their general attitude and sense of tradition. Let me know what you think.
> 
> Additional note: When Gemma Farley says, "Balance your broom there, Seeker." she is not making a clairvoyant reference to Malfoy's future on the Slytherin team. She is in fact using an idiom that I imagine to be the wizard equivalent of "Hold your horses, cowboy."


	9. Halloween

The next morning at breakfast, their duel was the hot topic on everyone's tongue. Only Harold and Malfoy were unable to join the conversation with their tongues still affected by the hexes they had inflicted the night before. As neither of them could eat in their present condition, they slurped tea and orange juice, shooting glares at each other across the table.

Things didn't get any easier in Potions where they had to prepare a Forgetfulness Potion without being able to speak. It was lucky that Uncle Severus was busy tormenting the Gryffindors, and both Pansy and Blaise were smart enough to work with non-verbal cues when it came to preparing ingredients and sharing the workload.

With only five minutes left until the end of class, and their potion successfully prepared, Harold breathed a sigh of relief as he bottled a sample to be graded.

"Mr. Prince, Mr. Malfoy," said Uncle Severus in his silkiest voice. "Please stay behind after class."

Harold hung his head. Busted.

As the bell rang and everyone else filed out of the classroom, he and Malfoy stepped up to the teacher's desk with their heads bowed and their eyes glued to the floor.

"You two have certainly been quiet today."

They couldn't say anything without giving themselves away. Harold glanced over at Malfoy, who was glancing back at him. Then they both shrugged.

"I also noticed that both of you appear to be injured."

Harold glanced at Malfoy again. The blond boy's lips were cracked, and his jaw was trembling from the strain of hiding the sharp, pink horn inside his mouth. The steady throbbing in his own cheek reminded Harold there was a big red welt across his chin. They both shrugged again.

"Do you have nothing to say for yourselves?"

They both shook their heads no without having to look at each other.

The next thing Uncle Severus did was terrifying.

His lips twitched; then they parted around his crooked, yellow teeth; and then a rasping cackle filled the room. He was laughing at them.

Harold's eyes widened as he stared at his uncle. He'd never really heard the man laugh before. A spiteful snort, a derisive chuckle, or, on very rare occasions, an amused smirk was as far as Uncle Severus went with such things. Malfoy, of course, wasn't aware of this, so he was crossing his arms with a foul glare. The tip of the pink horn started to protrude from between his lips.

When Uncle Severus finished laughing, there was still a spark left behind in his black eyes. He looked at them both with thinly veiled amusement.

"Horn-tongue Hex?" he asked Malfoy before he turned his head to Harold. "Stinger?"

Harold wished he could project his thoughts and tell Malfoy they had to come clean. As it was, all he could do was nod. He almost felt bad until he looked over and saw that Malfoy had already been nodding.

Uncle Severus cleared his throat, but there was an echo of the rasping cackle in the sound.

"I understand that the rule is to let the inflicted damage heal naturally. However, I do believe in this particular case, the interest of keeping Slytherin traditions in confidence outweighs the requirement to bear the consequences of your actions."

He dropped his wand from his sleeve and pointed it first at Harold, "Episkey!" and then at Malfoy, "Finite Incantatem."

Harold felt his tongue shrink back to its normal size and the red welt on his chin stopped throbbing. One look at Malfoy and he knew the pink horn had turned back into a tongue even before the git stuck it out at him.

"That will be all," said Uncle Severus. "Good day, gentlemen." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

 

During lunch, a school owl appeared over the Slytherin table and dropped a letter with enough accuracy to avoid Harold's bowl of pea soup. The note was from Hagrid, the gamekeeper.

 

> Dear Harold,
> 
> If you have time after your last class today, would you like to come over for a cup of tea? I am planning a trip into the forest, and I'd be happy to take you along to gather some food for Salazar. I'll be working in my cabin until four, so just give us a knock when you get there. Fang will be happy to see you.
> 
> Hagrid.

 

Harold pocketed the note and finished his pea soup before he headed out for his last class of the day, Herbology with Professor Sprout. The single hour went by quickly, and he was just about to leave when Hermione grabbed him by the elbow and stopped him inside the door.

"That was an interesting class, wasn't it?" she said. "Who knew that Mistletoe could be used in an Antidote Potion, even though it's quite poisonous on its own? Did you want to go to the library together and research it some more?"

Harold pulled his arm out of her grip and stepped to the side, making room for the rest of the students to leave the greenhouse.

"Actually," he said, "I'm on my way to the gamekeeper's hut. We're going to go look for food for Salazar."

"Oh." Hermione's face fell. "Okay. I understand."

Looking at the crestfallen expression on her face, Harold realized that asking to go to the library together was Hermione's way of trying to spend time as friends. He had noticed that Ravenclaws, as a rule, were very competitive, and rumor had it she was hands down at the top of their first year class.

"Did you want to come with?" he asked with a doubtful frown.

"Can I?" Her head shot up with a big smile, buckteeth sinking into her bottom lip.

"You'll probably hate it," he warned her. "We're going to look for frogs and newts, and Hagrid said we're going into the Forbidden Forest."

Disgust warred with loneliness on her face as she gave it some thought, but then her eyes lit up and she nodded eagerly.

"I'll come along."

They walked up the sloping lawn from the greenhouses to the small wooden cabin at the edge of the forest. As soon as they got close to the door, Harold could hear Fang scratching and whining from the other side.

"You're not afraid of dogs, right?" he asked. "This one's kind of big." He spread his arms out, trying to indicate the massive size of the boarhound.

"I know. I'll be okay."

Her voice was firm, but she took a half-step back and tightened her grip around the cord of her book satchel.

Harold nodded and knocked on the door. The whining instantly turned into booming barks, and then Hagrid's voice came from behind the door.

"Back, Fang. Back! Tha's enough now."

The door opened and Hagrid's face appeared inside the small crack.

"Hang on," he told them. "Fang's jus' a bit--"

"Excited," Harold finished for him as he watched Hagrid draw the giant hound back by a thick leather collar.

"Yeah. Come in, come in."

Fang's long, skinny tail was wagging so fast, he knocked over a stack of papers. Hermione kept a wary eye on the dog as she closed the door behind them.

"I brought Hermione with me," Harold said. "I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all," said Hagrid, who was wrangling Fang back onto his blanket by the fire. "Make yerselves comfortable."

They circled around the table and sat down on the patchwork quilt covering Hagrid's enormous bed. The moment Hagrid let go of Fang, the boarhound shot back across the room and stuck his huge snout in Hermione's face, huffing at her bushy hair and licking her ears.

"Ew!" Hermione shuddered, pushing at the dog's chest, but she was giggling all the same.

"Enough, Fang." Hagrid whistled through his teeth. "Give the girl some room."

Fang took that as an invitation to walk around the table, plop his head down on Harold's knee, and drool all over his robes. Harold grimaced, but he patted the hound's head a few times before he pushed him away. Fang trotted back over to his blanket and curled up with a happy huff.

"Hermione," said Hagrid, placing three large mugs and a plate of rock cakes on the table. "I heard you're on top of first year across all Houses. Well done, a great job."

When Hermione blushed and nodded, Harold raised his eyebrows in awe. No wonder the other Ravenclaws were steering clear of her. They had to be going insane with jealousy.

"Congratulations," he said sincerely.

"Thanks," she said with a small smile as Hagrid filled their mugs with tea.

They both reached for rock cakes and when they sat back, Harold leaned over to mumble under his breath, "You really want to dunk these."

While their rock cakes soaked in tea, the conversation turned to the task at hand.

"So," Harold said. "We're going into the Forbidden Forest?"

"Isn't that too dangerous?" asked Hermione.

"Nah," said Hagrid, taking a sip of tea. "We'll take Fang, an' as long as yeh stay by me side, yeh'll be jus' fine."  

 

The Forbidden Forest started as a dense line of dark, coniferous trees not far beyond the pumpkin patch at the back of Hagrid's hut. Harold and Hermione had each been given a latched glass jar as well as a fishing-net, while Hagrid had picked up his crossbow from beside the door and strapped a huge carrier to his shoulders that was only a little bit smaller than his enormous back. The pack could have easily held Hermione, Harold, and two more first years with spare room to breathe.

They followed Hagrid onto a narrow, winding path into the woods. Fang bounded ahead of them and circled back every so often. When they reached a fork in the path, the boarhound waited at the apex, his tail wagging. 

"What are you hunting for?" asked Harold, eyeing the crossbow in Hagrid's hand.

"Got ter get meat for me dog."

Hermione's eyes widened as she stared at the enormous backpack.

"Just how much does Fang eat?" she asked in a breathy voice.

"Not Fang," said Hagrid, "Me other dog, Fluffy. He's bigger, eats a lot."

Harold and Hermione exchanged a look with raised brows. She was probably wondering about the same thing that was on his mind. Just how big was this other dog?

"Come on," said Hagrid. "We're gonna take a right up here."

They followed the right-hand side of the fork, deeper into the forest. The soft dribble of water came from somewhere up ahead. Just around a long bend in the path, they stepped into a small clearing where a bubbling brook wound its way through the forest over a narrow bed of rocks and dirt.

"Yeh'll probably find yer frogs and newts here and there," said Hagrid, pointing out the spots along the brook that were overgrown with grass and weeds. "Good luck. I'll be right up ahead. If yeh need me, just shoot sparks in the air with yer wands. Yeh know how ter do tha', right?" 

They nodded and watched Hagrid lumber off deeper into the forest, Fang trotting along at his side. The moment he was out of earshot, Hermione turned to Harold with a curious expression on her face.

"How big do you think this other dog is?"

"I don't know," said Harold with a shrug. "But you saw the size of that backpack."

"Yeah, he must be huge."

He took off his robes, rolled up his pant legs, and stepped into the brook. Hermione dipped one hand into the water and squeaked.

"It's frigid!" she shouted.

"Wuss."

He waded through the cool stream toward the nearest patch of weeds.

Hermione stuck her tongue out and hopped over to a spot with tall grass that she could reach from the edge of the brook.

"Does it matter what type of frog?" she asked, directing a leery glance at the murky water between the reeds.

"Nope." Harold shook his head. "Salazar will eat just about anything. He really likes boobrie chicks now, but he'll make do with whatever I can get him."

"I've read about boobries. In Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them it says they're shape-shifters: big black-and-white birds that can turn into a water-bull at night. It's how they lure real cattle into the lake where they eat them."

"Really?" Harold hadn't known that. "The chicks were only this big." He stretched out his forefinger and thumb, leaving a gap about the size of a chicken egg between them.

Hermione nodded. "They grow incredibly fast. By the time they reach adulthood they're five feet tall, and the sound they make is like the bellow of a bull."

She sifted her fishing net through the water, but it came up empty. Harold rolled his eyes and paid closer attention to his own patch of weeds. They fished quietly for a while. He managed to catch a couple of frogs in his net, but Hermione wasn't as successful.

When she nearly tumbled into the brook, trying to reach after a slippery newt, she splashed her hand into the muddy water and growled through her teeth.

"This is ridiculous. If we were back in London, we could just go to a pet store and buy the ruddy things."  

Harold laughed, wading out of the water to place his own successful catch into the glass jar he had brought.

"Why waste the money?"

"Because then I wouldn't be getting soaked. They can't be that expensive."

"I don't know about pet stores in London, but in the Apothecary on Diagon Alley, they go for about twelve Sickles each. That gets expensive, fast."

Hermione's nose crinkled as she furrowed her brows low over it. She counted something on her fingers and then threw her hands up with a huff.

"I still can't get it straight. How much is twelve Sickles in pounds again?"

"It's not that hard," said Harold, who had been dealing with both Muggle and wizard currency for as long as he could remember. "It's about five pounds to a Galleon, twenty-nine pennies to a Sickle, and one penny to a Knut."

"So that's ..." Hermione's eyes glossed over, and she counted on her fingers again. "Three pounds fifty for a newt? You're right, that is expensive." She returned to her fishing with renewed vigor.

"It's lucky that the goblins at Gringotts are honest," he said, snickering as he waded back into the brook, "or at least very accurate when it comes to money. You'd be such an easy target for fraud."

"Oh, speaking of Gringotts," said Hermione, slashing her fishing net through the water. "Did you hear about the break-in back in July?"

"I think everyone's heard of that." He snatched after a frog, but the slippery little amphibian leaped an impressive distance across the brook.

"Wasn't it curious that they ended up breaking into an empty vault?" She sat back on her heels and braced her chin on one hand, smearing mud all over her cheek. "I mean there couldn't have been much in there to begin with if it was emptied that very same day, which is another weird thing all on its own." 

"I think it was a dark artifact," said Harold, sloshing through the brook to another patch of weeds. "It makes more sense than breaking into Gringotts for money. They've got dragons down there and all kinds of nasty hexes and curses on the vault doors. Nobody would risk that just for a bunch of Galleons."

"That's true. Then I wonder who it belonged to." Her eyes widened as her mouth dropped open with a gasp. "Do you think You-Know-Who had a vault at Gringotts? What if it was his vault and he had some sort of doomsday machine in there?"

"'S not You-Know-Who's, it's Dumbledore's."  

They both jumped at the gruff voice. Hagrid had come back. His wild hair was matted with sweat and there was a rusty brown smudge on his forehead. Fang was trotting at his side, panting, his huge tongue hanging out of his jowls, dripping drool.

"What?" asked Hermione.

"How do you know?" asked Harold.

"Hogwarts business," Hagrid said, setting his pack on the ground. It was now bulging in places and heavy with whatever was inside it. "All yer need ter know is tha' it's safe now and well guarded." He patted the bulging pack as he said it. "Now, how are yeh makin' out with yer frogs an' newts?"

Harold showed Hagrid his jar with two shiny dark frogs inside it. The gamekeeper nodded and then pulled a giant handkerchief from his moleskin coat that he handed to Hermione.

"Don't worry," he said as she wiped her face. "I'll help yer catch a couple newts, and then we can head back an' freshen up proper for dinner."

 

Later that night Harold stayed awake for a long time, mulling over the mystery of the Gringotts break-in. He had gotten into the habit of keeping the curtains pulled back on the side of his bed that faced the window. Staring out into the dark green water of the lake, he wondered what it could be that had almost been stolen. Taking the few clues he had been given, it was clear that whatever it was belonged to Dumbledore, had been taken from Gringotts to Hogwarts on the day of Harold's birthday, and was now protected by Hagrid's unseen bigger dog, Fluffy, who required so much meat that it filled a carrier the size of Hagrid's enormous back. It wasn't a far stretch to assume that Fluffy was the very painful death lurking behind the right-hand side corridor on the third floor. But what was it that Fluffy was protecting? What item could be so important to Dumbledore and at the same time so desirable to Dark wizards that it was worth the risk of breaking into Gringotts, as well as the risk of placing a giant, man-eating dog into a busy corridor in a school full of children? When he put it that way, Hermione's idea of a doomsday machine didn't sound all that far-fetched anymore. 

A bright, silver fishtail swirled by on the bottom edge of the window, leaving a trail of bubbles in its wake. Harold looked up in time to see a small, pale-green creature swim by that looked like an over-sized frog with horns on its head; spindly, webbed fingers and toes shoveled water out of the way as it chased after the silver tail. He watched the window, waiting for them to return, but his eyes soon became too heavy to keep them open.

 

Over the next few weeks, a comfortable routine started to develop. After the first disastrous flying lesson, the ones that followed went smoothly. Harold loved flying. It came as natural to him as walking on solid ground. By the third lesson he was executing break-neck turns, forward spirals, and backward loops as if he'd been riding on a broom all his life. He was crushed to find out that the lessons would only continue until the end of first term. Madam Hooch told him she expected to see him for Quidditch tryouts next year. When Harold told her his uncle would never allow it, there was a sharp glint in her hawkish eyes, and she cocked her head like a bird watching prey before she said, "We'll see."

Every Friday after Herbology, he would go out into the forest with Hagrid to find food for Salazar and Fluffy. Hermione was happy to come along, but she preferred to bring a book and sit on a mossy bolder while Harold did all the hard work. After the first time that had happened, Harold hunted down Neville until he found him in the library with his new best friend, Justin-Finch Fletchley. They agreed to help before he'd even finished his request. Since then the three boys spent Friday afternoons wading up and down the small brook, catching frogs and newts, while Hermione entertained them with the best tidbits out of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Most evenings after dinner, Harold spent time in the empty Potions classroom, talking to Salazar and listening to his uncle in the next room over, complaining about dunderheaded students as he corrected their Potions homework with vicious slashes of his quill in blood red ink. Before he knew it, two months had come and gone and it was the end of October.

When Harold stepped out of the common room entrance on Halloween morning, he took a deep breath and his stomach growled loudly. The mouthwatering smell of warm pumpkin was drifting down all the way from the kitchen on the other end of the main dungeon corridor.

After a delicious breakfast of warm pumpkin bread with cinnamon butter, it was hard to keep his eyes open in History of Magic while the shriveled ghost of Professor Binns droned on and on about Uric the Oddball -- and his unwitting instigation of the first Goblin rebellion -- in a dry, wheezy voice. 

Professor Quirrell seemed distracted in Defense Against the Dark Arts, stammering his way through a lesson on the Curse of the Bogies and its effect on various dark creatures.

At least Professor McGonagall made things interesting, teaching them how to turn a pumpkin into a horse carriage. Due to the limited space in the classroom, they moved the lesson into the courtyard and had to take turns transfiguring their pumpkins. By the end of the class, Millie Bulstrode earned five House points for creating the most elaborate coach with curtains in the window and lanterns made from pumpkin leaves.

Charms with Professor Flitwick was the last class of the day (Harold didn't consider flying lessons a class because he had too much fun zooming through the air). The tiny professor climbed up onto his podium of books in the usual fashion and announced in an excited squeak that they would start to learn the Levitation Charm for objects. Then he quickly divided the class into pairs.

To their mutual dismay, and Pansy Parkinson's vocal protestations, Harold and Malfoy ended up as partners. They had managed to steer clear of each other since the duel. This was the first time they were forced to communicate in weeks.

"Malfoy," Harold said with a nod as he sat down next to the blond.

"Prince," said Malfoy in an equally neutral tone, returning the nod.

"Now," said Professor Flitwick. "don't forget the wrist movement must be loose and fluid. Swish-and-flick, everybody. Swish-and-flick. And mind your enunciation!"

Malfoy sat up straighter with an arrogant smirk on his face.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

He moved his wand in a practiced swish-and-flick, and the feather they were supposed to levitate started to gently float up into the air.

Harold rolled his eyes. There was no need for Malfoy to preen himself like that. Looking around, nearly everyone's feather was rising into the air at their command. It was not surprising that most of the Slytherin kids had learned some basic spells even before they received their own wand. From what Harold had learned, most of them had grown up in all-Wizard families, and even those that were half-blood had been raised around every day magic.

He swished and flicked his own wand, pointed it at Malfoy's feather, and recited the incantation. The feather twitched in the air and moved closer to Harold. Just for fun, he twirled his wand and let the feather twirl around in a loop.

"Oh, very good, Mr. Prince!" Professor Flitwick squeaked happily.

Malfoy scowled and slashed his wand at the feather. It twitched again and moved closer to Malfoy, where it executed another loop, twirled, and stood straight in the air like a quill poised to write.

"Nice work, Mr. Malfoy," said Professor Flitwick.

"Bravo! Bravo!" Pansy began to clap excitedly, ignoring her own feather that sailed back down to her desk, as Millie rolled her eyes with an exasperated grunt.

Harold twitched his wand, forcing the feather back under his control. The quill started to write invisible words into the air. He turned his head and smirked at Malfoy with raised brows.

Malfoy pressed his lips together so hard that his mouth became a thin, straight line and then muttered another incantation under his breath.

The words started to appear, flaring up in a vivid orange like a thin trail of fire as the quill continued to write in the air.

PANSY & MALFOY SITTING IN A

"Incendio!" The feather burned to a crisp; ashes rained down as the words disappeared in a shower of orange specks.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Flitwick squeaked. "Mr. Prince! I don't know whether to -- Just how could you -- Fantastic Charms work, both of you, but your behavior is utterly deplorable!"

The whole class snickered behind their hands as Professor Flitwick went into a tizzy about whether to award them House points for their advanced Charms work, or take them away for their antics. In the end, he didn't do either.

"Git," said Malfoy under his breath as he shouldered his way past Harold out the door at the end of class.

"Prat!" Harold called after him down the corridor, grinning when Malfoy spun around.

"Plonker!"

"Pillock!" Harold shot back.

"Tosser!" Malfoy continued to walk backwards, nearly colliding with Professor Quirrell when he reached the staircase at the end of the corridor. The look on Malfoy's face was priceless when the professor turned him around by the shoulders and looked at him with brows raised and a twitch under his eye.

"Not you, sir," Malfoy said hastily.

Harold burst out laughing. His guffaws got even louder when Malfoy whipped his head around and glared at him, his eyes narrowed to thin slits. He paid for his amusement when Malfoy knocked him off his broom during flying lessons, but by the time the Halloween feast rolled around that evening, they had managed to re-establish a temporary truce. It seemed that neither of them was keen to have another duel so soon after the last one.  

The hall was decked out with carved pumpkins, and Professor McGonagall had moved Millie's pumpkin coach from the courtyard into the Great Hall near the staff table. The girls from all four Houses fawned over it, until they found out that a Slytherin had created it. Then the Gryffindors turned up their noses and acted as if it was no big deal, and they didn't like it that much after all. Harold noticed that Hermione wasn't among the Ravenclaws gushing over the pumpkin carriage. She wasn't sitting at their table either. He quickly stopped a pretty Ravenclaw girl with long dark hair by her elbow and asked about Hermione.

The girl narrowed her almond shaped eyes and told him in a cold tone that "the show-off" was probably still crying in the girls' bathroom on the second floor. Harold narrowed his eyes. At a closer look, she didn't seem so pretty after all.

As thousands of bats started to swoop down over the tables, Harold started to jog toward the exit of the Great Hall. He had just reached the great oak doors when somebody called after him.

"Harold, where's the fire?"

It was Neville, sitting next to Justin, who was swatting at a thick clump of bats zooming low over his head.

"It's Hermione," said Harold quickly. "She's ..." He made a face, not wanting to shout out that she was crying in front of the whole table, even if it was the Hufflepuff table.

"We're coming," said Neville.

"Huh?" said Justin, who had missed the exchange, but when Neville pulled him up by his sleeve he came right along with an, "Oh, okay." 

Harold led them up the marble staircase and around to the next flight of stairs.

"Where are we going?" asked Justin from the back as they ran up the steps.

"Girls' bathroom," said Harold. "The Ravenclaws were being prats. One of them just told me Hermione is in there crying. No idea how long she's been there."

"Oh no," said Neville, looking back down at Justin. "D'you suppose that's why she didn't show up for flying lessons?" He stumbled, and nearly fell onto the steps, but Justin pulled him up by his robes.

"Probably," Justin said. "Girls can be so mean."

They rounded another corner and dashed down the second floor corridor to the girls' bathroom. Until they came to a dead stop in front of the door, looking at each other.

Harold was the one who finally had the courage to knock on the door.

"Hermione?" he called out loudly.

"Leave me alone!"

Her voice was nasal and broken, as if she had been crying for hours. Harold, Neville, and Justin exchanged worried frowns.

"It's us, Hermione," said Harold, "Just me, Neville, and Justin. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine! Go away."

She didn't sound fine. She sounded like she was having a really bad day. Harold laid his hand on the door handle and noticed that the key was sticking in the lock from the outside. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

"Did they lock you in there?"

If those Ravenclaw girls had locked Hermione in the bathroom, they would pay for it. But the key didn't turn any farther when he twisted it to unlock the door.

"Won't you come out and talk to us?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Justin, stepping closer to the door. "It can't be that nice in there, if the girls' loo is anything like the boys'." 

Harold sniffed. The boys' bathroom on the dungeon corridor was definitely not one of his favorite places. There was always a moldy smell to it, even though the house-elves cleaned it with Mrs. Scowers All-Magical Mess Remover every day.

When he took a deep breath to yell through the door again, he noticed a similar smell; only this was a hundred times worse and mixed with rotten eggs and sweaty gym socks.

"Do you smell that?" asked Neville.

The foul stench came from somewhere down the corridor, and when they turned, they could hear the sound of low grunting and a loud dragging noise. And then they saw it.

The great, lumpy body of a troll lumbered into a patch of moonlight at the end of the corridor. The creature was easily twelve feet tall and as ugly as the night was dark. What it lacked in the short, chubby legs, it made up for with incredibly long arms. The loud dragging sound came from the giant wooden club it was holding in one lumpy hand.

Justin squeaked in shock. Neville almost fainted. Harold's lips trembled.

"Hermione, we're coming in."

He grabbed the key from the lock, pulled open the door, and they scrambled inside. As soon as they were in, he closed the door, locked it, and backed away slowly, Neville and Justin at his back.

"What are you doing?" shrieked Hermione, stepping out of the last stall at the end.

"Shh!" Harold hissed, pressing one finger to his lips before he continued in his quietest whisper. "There is a giant mountain troll out there." He pointed to the door.

Hermione's red eyes went as wide as saucers as she made a feeble noise in her throat.

They all huddled together on the floor, cowering against the back wall.

"Maybe it'll go away?" Neville whispered.

BANG!

The door caved in with an almighty crunch of wood. The troll crouched and squeezed itself through the open doorway, giant club in hand.

Hermione and Justin screamed. Harold gasped. Neville sat petrified with fear.

The creature lumbered toward them, knocking the sinks off the wall as it went. Water exploded out of the pipes, gushing everywhere.

They were trapped.

"We need to get past it!" Harold shouted.

"How?" screamed Hermione.

"I don't know!" cried Justin.

Neville was white as a sheet, fumbling inside his robes. He pulled out his stack of Exploding Snap cards and threw them toward the troll.

"Of course!" Justin shouted and pulled out his wand as Neville retrieved his with trembling fingers. They pointed their wands together.

All around the troll's feet, the cards started to explode. The monster stopped, raising its arms and waving them around as great clouds of dark smoke stung his eyes.

"Now," shouted Harold, "Run!"

He grabbed Hermione's hand and they all ran around the troll toward the door. The troll whirled around, as they ran past and the last few cards exploded around them. He raised his arm, preparing to swing the giant club, but Harold aimed his wand straight at the troll's face and shouted, "Ictus!"

The stinger knocked the creature back and Harold, Hermione, Neville, and Justin ran out into the hallway.

"We have to find a teacher!" shouted Hermione as they bolted toward the main staircase.

But there was no time. Booming footsteps echoed down the corridor as the troll caught up with them. They spun around, wands raised in trembling hands as each of them cast the first spell they could think of.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

"Titillando!"

"Aguamenti!"

The troll rose into the air as blue light from Harold's wand struck it square in the chest and knocked it back. The troll hit the ground, writhing and clutching at its sides, tears streaming from its eyes as a stream of water shot from Neville's wand right into the troll's gaping mouth, making it gasp and gurgle.

Harold, Hermione, and Justin looked at Neville with confused frowns on their faces.

"Watering Charm," he muttered. "Professor Sprout taught me."

Loud footsteps behind them made them all whirl around.

Professor McGonagall was running up the stairs toward them, while Uncle Severus and Professor Quirrell were jogging down from the third floor.

They all stopped when they caught sight of the writhing, wet troll on the ground a few feet away from four first year students. Professor Quirrell took one look at the creature before he collapsed heavily onto the closest step, clutching his chest.

"What on earth happened here?" asked Professor McGonagall in a faint voice. Her lips were white. "Why aren't you in your dormitories?"

Everyone started to talk at once, trying to explain what had happened as Professor McGonagall stared at them with a mixture of disbelief and fascination.

"Enough!" Uncle Severus stepped forward with a scowl. "Harold. In short, precise terms, please."

Harold took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.

"We came up before dinner to find Hermione. We were talking through the door of the girls' bathroom when the troll appeared at the end of the corridor. We all hid in the bathroom. The troll broke in. We fought it. We won."

Uncle Severus stared quietly into Harold's eyes for a moment before he turned to Professor McGonagall.

"That explains matters to my satisfaction. Any further questions?"

McGonagall sputtered and pulled herself to her full height. Then she sniffed and shook her head stiffly.

"Very well," said Uncle Severus. "If there's nothing else..." He let his sentence dangle meaningfully.

"Quite right," said Professor McGonagall. "You may all return to your Houses. Students will finish the feast in their individual common rooms tonight." 

Harold's face fell, and he could see that Hermione, Neville, and Justin felt the same way.

"In any case," McGonagall continued. "Dumbledore will hear about this. Not many students could have taken on a mountain troll and lived to tell the tale. You may go."

They slinked past the Professors, looking resigned as they stopped at the staircase that would take Hermione up to the Ravenclaw Tower while the boys had to go down to the dungeons for the Slytherin and Hufflepuff common rooms.

"One moment," said Uncle Severus and, after everyone turned to look at him, continued,  "Five points to Slytherin for remaining calm under pressure."

Professor McGonagall gasped and wobbled her head as she stared at Uncle Severus.

"And?"

When Uncle Severus didn't say anything else, she huffed, crossed her arms, and finished for him. "Five points each to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for outstanding courage."

Uncle Severus snorted.

Harold was sure none of them cared about the House points at the moment. They were all too disappointed about having to part ways right after their amazing adventure.

"See you at breakfast tomorrow?" Neville said hopefully, looking from him to Hermione.

"Definitely," said Harold.

"Seven-thirty sharp," said Hermione.

"Cool." Justin grinned and slung an arm around Neville's shoulders before they all went their separate ways.


	10. Quidditch

The beginning of November brought with it the first frost of the year. The cold breath of wind fogged up the edges around the black glass surface of the lake and dusted the very tips of the craggy gray mountains in the distance with a thin layer of white. The sky stretched like a pale sheet of silk over everything. Through the damp windows of the castle, Hagrid could be seen tending the grounds, wearing a thick moleskin coat and rabbit fur gloves. His beaver-skin boots left giant footprints in the frost covered grass as he plodded all over the lawns to clear the Quidditch pitch stands or help Professor Sprout prepare the greenhouses for winter.

November also brought with it something Harold had been waiting for desperately: the beginning of the Quidditch season. When he wasn't busy with homework, or spending time with Hermione, Neville, and Justin, or talking to Salazar in the Potions classroom, Harold had been able to steal a few precious hours in the library, sitting on the cold stone floor in the far corner of the Sports section, devouring one book on Quidditch after another. He was worried if he tried to check them out, his uncle would find out about it and they would end up getting into a fight.

The first match was scheduled for the coming Saturday. Slytherin would be playing against their least favorite House: Gryffindor. After finding out that the Weasley kid had been made Chaser, they had only been mildly surprised, but wildly furious, when Malfoy told them that the teachers had broken another rule and allowed the first year to have his own broomstick -- a brand new Nimbus Two Thousand. Team Captain Marcus Flint had been so livid he had broken the arm of his chair when he'd smashed his fist down on it.

For his part, Harold had retreated to the library and pulled the well-worn copy of Quidditch Through the Ages off the shelf, going over every rule in the book, including the seven hundred ways of committing a foul, to see if there was anything he could find to disqualify the rule-breaker from the game, or at least keep him from using the broomstick. As it turned out, there was nothing to be done about it, so they would just have to flatten the other team on the pitch.

 

 

On the Friday before the match, Harold, Hermione, Neville, and Justin accompanied Hagrid into the forest, only to find that their little brook had completely frozen over. It was lucky they had caught extra frogs and newts back in September and that Uncle Severus had agreed to preserve them in his storeroom. Hagrid had returned with them to the edge of the forest where they told him goodbye and started their trek across the frozen grounds back up to the castle.

"Now what do we do?" said Hermione, puffing a white cloud of breath over her red fingers. "It's too cold to stay outside, but I don't want to go back to my common room."

"Yeah, me either," said Harold. "The library's no good because we can't talk there." And nobody needed to mention that the common rooms were off limits to each other's Houses.

Neville's face lit up as he stopped in the middle of the lawn.

"I have an idea!" His face fell as he looked around nervously. "But you can't tell anyone."

They were standing alone on the huge stretch of lawn between Hagrid's hut and the castle.

"Go on," said Hermione, dancing on her feet, her cheeks turning red from the cold. "What is it?"

Justin looked at Neville with a frown before his face cleared up.

"I think I know," he said. "It's really a secret though, and if we get caught, we'll probably lose House points."

Harold scowled. He didn't like the sound of that. Hermione on the other hand was getting impatient.

"Well," she said crisply, "is it some place warm where we can talk?"

Justin grinned. "Yeah, I would think so."

Neville nodded shyly. "We might even get a few snacks."

"Then what are we waiting for?" she yelled. "Sod the House points. Let's go."

Harold watched her storm ahead, wondering if just maybe he had been wrong in his assessment of Hermione. The way she talked right now, she would have made an excellent Gryffindor.

They caught up with her by the entrance doors and Neville led them all down the steps to the left of the marble staircase into the dungeons and down the right-hand side corridor with various still-life paintings of food that led to the kitchens. When they reached a painting with a giant bowl of fruit, Neville stopped them and looked around anxiously.

"Okay, I think we're alone."

Then he reached out and tickled a plump green pear the size of his head, which started to giggle and turned into a large green door handle. 

"Come on," he opened the door and shooed them all inside ahead of him.

Harold's mouth dropped open as he looked around the room. He had never been inside a kitchen as huge as this one. Four long tables, the same size as the student tables in the Great Hall, stood on the flagged stone floor, and there was still plenty of room around them. All around the walls hung pots and pans made of gleaming copper, shining brass, or dull cast iron. At the end of the long room was a brick fireplace twice as big as the one in the Slytherin common room. Throughout the kitchen, under the tables and between them, and in front of the huge fireplace, at least a hundred house-elves were puttering about. Each of them was wearing a tea towel bearing the Hogwarts crest, tied like a toga with a knot on one skinny shoulder.

One of the creatures by the fireplace squeaked and started to run toward them on its short, bendy legs.

"Mister Nevi, sir!" it cried in a shrill voice and vaulted itself up onto one of the tables, bat-wing ears flopping up and down as it dashed the length of the tabletop. "You is come to visit Puddy!" The house-elf beamed a smile full of crooked teeth, enormous brown eyes glittering above a piggy nose. It came to a stop at the very edge of the table in front of them. "And you brought friends!"

"I hope it's all right," said Neville hesitantly, scratching the back of his head.

"It's wonderful!" cried Puddy. "Would Mister Nevi and friends like some tea? Hot chocolate? Potato soup? Puddy can ask Dippy for some pie!"

"Maybe some hot chocolate?" Neville looked around and they all nodded eagerly.

Puddy snapped his fingers, and chairs appeared out of thin air around the table. He ushered them eagerly into their seats and dashed off. Harold watched in bewilderment as Puddy returned a moment later with five other elves in tow who placed four steaming mugs of hot chocolate in front of Neville, Justin, Harold, and Hermione and then sat down a tray of freshly baked ginger snaps, a second tray with soft rock cakes, a delicious looking chocolate-nut pie, a stack of plates and forks, and a bowl filled with tiny marshmallows.

"Thank you so much, Puddy," Neville said with a shy grin.

"Of course, Mister Nevi, sir," said Puddy.

Hermione's eyes glazed over as she took the first sip of hot chocolate.

"This is amazing," she mumbled around her mug. "Thank you, Puddy."

Puddy's green cheeks flushed a pale shade of pink as he pulled at his ears with a smile.

"How did you get access to this?" asked Harold as he lifted his own mug and picked up a ginger snap.

Neville shrugged. "A couple weeks ago, I helped Professor Sprout bring in fresh beets and the pumpkins for the Halloween feast from the greenhouses."

"And then Mister Nevi saved Puddy's life!" 

"More like I nearly killed him," muttered Neville under his breath.

"What happened?" asked Hermione.

"I was being a klutz," started Neville.

"It could have happened to anyone," Justin interrupted him with a stern frown. "A big pumpkin got knocked off the end of the table, but Neville caught it in time before--"

"It nearly crushed Puddy to death!" squeaked the house-elf. "A pumpkin the size of a house! Coming right at Puddy!"

Justin quietly held up his hands, indicating the span of an average loaf of bread, while Puddy continued his story unperturbed.

"And then Mr. Nevi snatched it out of the air, right above Puddy's head! Mr. Nevi saved Puddy's life!" Neville blushed crimson and ducked his head as Puddy proclaimed proudly, "That's why Mister Nevi and friends are always welcome in the kitchens!"

They finished their hot chocolate and each had a piece of the delicious chocolate-nut pie, talking about the upcoming Quidditch match. Hermione didn't care much for Quidditch, or flying brooms in general, and neither did Neville, but Justin was quickly becoming an avid fan of the sport, declaring that it resembled polo in some ways. Harold wasn't so sure he agreed. He had never seen polo players try to purposely knock each other of their horses. They only left the bustling kitchen when the house-elves had to start preparing for dinner.

 

 

Upstairs in the Great Hall, Harold noticed that Uncle Severus was missing from the staff table. He quickly finished his meal -- he wasn't very hungry after a plate of delicious pie and nearly a dozen cookies -- and returned to the dungeons to look in on his uncle.

Harold came in the usual way through the door of the Potions classroom and greeted Salazar with a quiet hello.

"You should see your uncle," Salazar hissed. "He's been making strange noises all afternoon."

"What kind of noises?"

There was a loud clatter, followed by a truly impressive string of foul words bellowed in his uncle's hoarse voice. Uncle Severus rarely used profanity, and never this loudly. The excessive squall of it made Harold hurry his steps toward the room next door, where his uncle's private study was located.

Standing in the threshold of the door by the blackboard, he saw his uncle perched on the edge of the desk chair inside the study, twisted in an awkward position, holding a blood soaked patch of gauze in one hand as he looked down over his mangled leg.

"What happened?" Harold burst out.

"Nothing," said Uncle Severus through gritted teeth as he dropped his robes over his leg.

"That's not nothing!"

He ran over and dropped to his knees in front of the desk, reaching for the bloody robes.

"Nothing that concerns you," snarled Uncle Severus, swatting at him.

His face was even more sallow than usual, and the thin, trembling lips had lost any pretense of color as sweat dripped from the tip of his beak-like nose.

"Please, Uncle Severus, let me help!"

Harold ignored the itch of oncoming tears as he looked up at his uncle, waiting to be told what to do. Uncle Severus took a few shaky breaths and stared into Harold's eyes. Then he shuddered, groaned low in his throat, and rolled his eyes toward the wall.

"Go get the dittany."

Harold scrambled to his feet, dashed back into the classroom, pulled the jar of Essence of Dittany from the shelf next to Salazar, and rushed back into the study. His uncle had pulled his robes back up to reveal the sopping wound.

"That looks bad," Harold said with a wince as he sank into a crouch, opening the jar.  

There was a half-circle of deep holes in his uncle's calf. It looked like something huge had tried to take a bite out of his leg. Of all the animals on the Hogwarts grounds that Harold knew of, there was only one that would leave such marks. He gasped.

"You got bit by Fluffy!"

Uncle Severus hissed sharply, snatched the dittany out of his hand, and glared.

"And just how do you know about that mangy beast?"

"Hagrid told me," he said, watching his uncle drip a few drops of the potion onto the bleeding bite marks, "when we went out into the forest to look for food."

Green smoke billowed from the wounds. The deep holes closed over and a dark crust grew on them, protecting the flesh underneath. Harold breathed a sigh of relief. Uncle Severus cringed and handed back the jar.

"What else has that ..." He gritted his teeth over a snarl and sat back in the chair. "What else did he tell you?"

Harold shrugged as he screwed the lid back onto the jar. His mind was warring over whether to keep his answer vague or tell his uncle exactly how much he knew.

"Look at me," barked Uncle Severus.

He cringed and raised his head, spilling the information in a rush.

"Just that Fluffy's protecting something that was almost stolen from Gringotts back in July and that it belongs to Dumbledore. I figured out myself that it's behind the forbidden door on the third floor."

His uncle jumped to his feet with a snarl and his eyes rolled in his head, sweat breaking out on his face as he turned a pale shade of green.

"That stone doesn't belong to Dumbledore. It's--" He cut himself off, grunting behind tightly pressed lips as he braced his weight on the desk.

Harold's eyes widened. He was sure his uncle would never have said that if he wasn't delirious with pain.

"I think you should go see Madam Pomfrey," he whispered.

"Nonsense," snarled Uncle Severus. "I just need rest."

He helped his uncle from the study to his private quarters and watched with a worried frown as Uncle Severus slumped on his bed, too exhausted to change out of his blood stained robes.

"Go on," growled Uncle Severus. "Get out of here. It's nearly curfew."

Harold left through the study with a lump in his throat and a knot in his stomach.

As soon as he pulled the door by the blackboard closed behind him, he heard Salazar's voice from the corner.

"What's wrong with your uncle?"

"He got bit by a mangy beast," Harold said coldly as he placed the jar with Essence of Dittany back on the ingredients shelf. "But he says he'll be fine."

"That's good. I was worried."

"Me too," said Harold.

Before he left the classroom, he had made up his mind to talk to Hagrid about Fluffy as soon as he got the chance.

 

It was a relief to see Uncle Severus back to his normal complexion, and with a resolute scowl on his face, when he joined the other teachers at the staff table the next morning. After breakfast, Harold rounded up his friends and, with Justin's help, managed to convince Neville and Hermione to all go to the game together.

The crisp, cold air bit their noses (about which Hermione immediately complained) when they stepped out of the castle, and turned their breath into puffy white clouds as they crunched across the frozen grass to the Quidditch pitch. Almost the whole school had showed up for the first game of the season. They climbed up the hundreds of steps into the stands where Harold spotted Blaise, sitting one row behind Millie Bulstrode, Tracey Davis, and Daphne Greengrass. Further away in the top row was Pansy, who was hanging on Malfoy's arm as usual, with Crabbe and Goyle behind them. Everyone had binoculars hanging around their necks, ready to watch the game. Harold wished he had them as well, but he would have had to explain to his uncle why he wanted them. When they got closer, he called out to Blaise. 

"Hey, can we join you?"

His House mate looked up and raised his brows when he noticed the House colors on the others' scarves.

"Um, sure, I guess," he said hesitantly.

"Thanks."

Harold sat down next to Blaise, followed by Hermione, Neville, and Justin on the other end.

"So, how does this game work again?" asked Hermione.

Blaise snorted and rolled his eyes, but Harold ignored him, looking out over the pitch as he started to explain.

"Each team has one Keeper, three Chasers, two Beaters, and one Seeker." He pointed at the three hoops standing on long, thin poles at each end of the pitch. "The Keeper stays in front of the hoops, trying to keep out the Quaffle."

"Like in football?" clarified Hermione.

"Yeah, but in Quidditch, you throw the ball instead of kicking it. The Chasers are your forward players, trying to get the Quaffle in the hoops; it's ten points per goal. Beaters are defense; they use their sticks to hit the Bludgers and try to knock the other team's players off their brooms."

"Barbaric," grumbled Hermione.

Harold ignored her and continued, "Then there's the Seeker, that's usually the fastest player on the team, and their job is to catch the Golden Snitch. The one who catches it first ends the game and wins a hundred and fifty points for their team. Our Seeker is Terence Higgs. I'll show you when they come out, so you can keep an eye on him."

"Got it," said Hermione with a nod.

"Oh, seriously?" Tracey Davis shouted below them, pointing across the field.

Millie Bulstrode nodded, grumbling a few unsavory words under her breath.

"What?" asked Harold, leaning down to follow Tracey's finger to the stands on the opposite end of the Quidditch pitch.

In a sea of black robes with red-and-gold scarves someone had stretched out a huge banner that spelled out Triple Weasley for the Win! Painted below the words was something that looked like a large blob from the distance.

"Oh, so it's true?" asked Hermione. "I heard a rumor that a Gryffindor from our year joined their Quidditch team, but I thought it was a hoax."

"Nope," said Blaise with a sneer. "They even gave him his own brand new Nimbus Two Thousand."

"What?" shrieked Hermione. "But everyone knows first years aren't allowed their own brooms! That's so unfair!"

Millie, Tracey, and Daphne looked up at her with raised brows and calculating expressions.

"Right you are, Granger," said Millie. "It certainly is."

A cheer went through the crowd, and everyone turned their eyes to the Quidditch pitch. Far below, the players were coming out of their locker rooms and walking in straight lines toward Madam Hooch, who stood in the middle of the field with broom in hand.

"That one's Higgs," Harold pointed at the tallest player wearing green robes and squinted. "I think."

Blaise snorted and pulled his binoculars over his head, wordlessly holding them out to Harold.

"Thanks," Harold said with a smile. "I'll give them right back."

He looked through the binoculars and quickly identified everyone on the Slytherin team.

"Yeah, see," he said, handing the binoculars to Hermione and pointing at the tallest player again. "That's Higgs right there, the tall one with the cowlick. He's a seventh year, so this is his last chance to win the cup. The guys shaking hands are the team captains. Ours is the one in green, obviously, Marcus Flint. He's one of our Chasers. Quick, give it back."

Hermione handed the binoculars back to him, and Harold gave them to Blaise a second before Madam Hooch blew her whistle.

Both teams rose into the air on their broomsticks. Madam Hooch threw the Quaffle up into the air, released the Bludgers and the Snitch, and rose slowly after them.  

"And the Quaffle is in the air and taken immediately by -- Johnson? Johnson from Gryffindor passes it like a hot potato to Spinnet! Remember, Angie! You're a Seeker now! Ah, must be true what they say, the good Lord doesn't give with both hands--"

"JORDAN!"

Professor McGonagall's bark was unmistakable.

"Sorry, Professor."

Everyone in their group snickered, but the humor was quickly lost as the commentator, Jordan, continued.

"And Spinnet passes to Bell, Bell back to Spinnet, last years reserve player now permanently on the team, who is taking the long way 'round, and passes to Weasley! You heard that right, Ron Weasley, freshly-hatched Gryffindor, first year wunderkind, strutting his stuff--"

"JORDAN!"

"And Flint intercepted! Slytherin has the Quaffle, flying up the field like an eagle, through the Weasleys and looks like he's going to score the first-- NO! Stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Oliver Wood."

Groans went through their side of the stadium as Harold, Blaise, and the other Slytherins sat back down, disappointed that Flint's attempt to score had failed.

"Katie Bell, diving around Flint and narrowly avoids a Bludger to the head. Passing to Weasley -- SNATCHED! In mid-air by Adrian Pucey! Slytherin takes the Quaffle, speeding toward the goalposts but he's blocked! Weasleys on all sides. Facing a Bludger from Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which, nice play anyway, has to pass back to Flint and there's Bell! Bell the Beauty of Gryffindor, taking possession of the Quaffle and off she goes! Like an arrow down the field, dodging a speeding Bludger, attempts a throw from the edge of the scoring area, Bletchley dives -- too low! GRYFFINDORS SCORE!"

Harold moaned, clapping his hands over his face as his fellow Slytherins howled and cursed, and the crowd around the other side of the pitch broke out in rabid cheers.

"Oh, honestly," said Hermione, rolling her eyes.

But Justin and Neville quickly offered their condolences.

"He'll stop it next time," said Justin with a determined nod, as Neville handed a handkerchief to Daphne Greengrass, who was crying with rage.

High up in the air, both Johnson and Higgs were circling the pitch, dodging the occasional stray Bludger, looking for the Golden Snitch as the battle for goals carried on below them.

"Slytherin in possession, Chaser Adrian Pucey takes the Quaffle down the field, ducks two Bludgers, past the Weasley twins and Baby Weasley."

"Jordan!"

"Sorry, Prof--SNITCH! The Snitch has been sighted!"

Adrian dropped the Quaffle. Harold groaned, but his eyes immediately went to the two Seekers in a steep dive toward the ground.

"Higgs and Johnson, neck and neck, going after the Snitch. They're fifty feet to the ground ... thirty feet. Johnson in the lead, now Higgs, now Johnson."

Whoosh!

Flint zoomed past, sending Johnson into a sideways spin, as he reached for the Quaffle.

"FOUL!" screamed the Gryffindors.

The Slytherins protested with various forms of rude words and gestures.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and got in Flint's face, taking the Quaffle off his hands.

"Oh, that was--" Daphne got so mad her words dissolved into high-pitched noises of rage as she glared at the referee.

Hermione looked skeptical as she crossed her arms over her chest.

The Gryffindors got a free shot at the hoops and the Golden Snitch got away.

It was clear whose side the commentator was on.

"After that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating--"

"Jordan!"

"Fine, penalty shot goes to Gryffindor for Flint's illegal cross-check during the dive. Spinnet puts it away and we're back in the game with Gryffindor still in possession."

The game returned to a fierce battle over the Quaffle while the Beaters knocked the two Bludgers around the field without mercy, trying to take out the Chasers of the opposing team.

Next to Harold, Hermione was dancing on her feet, but it wasn't in excitement. As the game wore on, the Snitch staying somewhere out of sight, she kept complaining about the cold.

"Oh, how long is this going to take? It's freezing out here."

"It takes as long as it takes to find the Snitch," groused Harold. "You can just go if--"

"Slytherin takes possession!"

Jordan's announcement pulled Harold's attention right back to the pitch.

"Flint has the Quaffle, gets past Spinnet, past Weasley. Hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it-"

"FOUL!" screeched Hermione. 

Everyone turned to look at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Slytherins score - Oh no."

Everyone's face whipped back to the field where Marcus was taking a loop around the hoops, pumping his fist in triumph even as blood gushed from his nose like a fountain.

Slytherin cheered. Everyone was on their feet, stomping and clapping.

"SLY-THE-RIN! SLY-THE-RIN!"

Tracey Davis waved a set of small emerald green pom-poms along to the rhythm.

Out on the field, the game continued as Gryffindor took possession of the Quaffle with Slytherin's Beaters Bole and Derrick on their heels like hellhounds, knocking Bludgers their way.

"Oh," whined Hermione, blowing hot breath over her palms and covering her ears. "I just wish it wasn't so cold!"

Millie Bulstrode whipped around in front of her, scowling.

"Will you shut it, already?" She huffed, turned around to Tracey, and pointed at the pom-poms. "Can you make do without these?"

"Sure." Tracey shrugged and handed them over.

"Thanks."

Millie pulled out her wand, and with a fluid swish-flick-twirl-poke motion turned the two small pom-poms into a set of emerald green ear muffs with a glittering silver headband.

"Here," she said, thrusting them at Hermione.

Hermione stared at the ear muffs, mouth agape as her nose wrinkled.

"What?" Millie asked with a suspicious glare.

"These are brilliant." Her nose wrinkled even more. "You've got to show me how to do that."

"Our Millie is a transfiguration genius," said Tracey. "You should have seen the pumpkin coach she made for Halloween. It had curtains, and lanterns, and everything!"

"Oh, really?" Hermione's eyes lit up. "I can't believe I missed it. That stupid troll."

"That was you?" Tracey gaped. "I want to know everything!"

Hermione stepped one bleacher down and squeezed in between Millie and Tracey.

"I don't!" Daphne huffed and climbed over them to sit in Hermione's abandoned seat between Harold and Neville.

"Slytherin in possession of the Quaffle again, going for it from the edge of the scoring field. Gryffindor Keeper Wood dives and -- Oh! Right into a Bludger, so sorry, Wood. Slytherin scores another ten points."

The game lasted four hours and twenty-three minutes until the Snitch was sighted again. Terrence Higgs managed to catch it right in front of Angelina Johnson's broom because Marcus Flint threw the Quaffle past her face and years of trained instincts made her catch it. Gryffindor howled. Slytherin cheered and left the pitch with an extra one hundred and ninety House points added to their hourglass in the entrance hall.

After the match, everyone else headed back toward the castle together, but Harold turned in a different direction toward Hagrid's hut at the edge of the forest.

"You guys go ahead," he called after the large group. "I'll catch up with you later."

When he reached the small cabin, he knocked firmly on the door and listened to Fang kick up a fuss. 

"Harold?"

He turned around, surprised that the voice was behind him. Hagrid was coming from the direction of the Quidditch pitch.

"Tha' was a game, wasn' it? What brings yeh by?"

"Yeah, it was great," said Harold with a smile, but then he remembered why he was there. "But I'm here about something else. I need to talk to you about Fluffy."

Hagrid stopped, looked around and lowered his voice.

"Yeh better come inside."

He ushered Harold into the tiny cabin and put on a kettle while Fang went through the usual greeting ritual of jumping and drooling over everything.

When everyone was settled in, Hagrid looked at Harold over his steaming mug with a grim expression.

"Wha's this about then?"

"Fluffy bit Uncle Severus," said Harold candidly. "I don't know why, or how my uncle got mixed up in Dumbledore's business, but I don't like it, and I would appreciate it if you could keep Fluffy from doing it again."

"Now, listen here, boy. Like you said, this is Dumbledore's business an--"

"Your dog bit my uncle. I don't care what it's about or who or why or whatever." That was a blatant lie. However, at the moment Harold cared much more about his uncle's well-being than some mystery that had nothing to do with him. "I just want you to make sure Uncle Severus doesn't get hurt again. Can you do that for me, please?"

Hagrid sat back, stunned. He looked at Harold for a long moment and Harold looked back earnestly, waiting for the grown-up to promise he would take care of the problem with his dog. Then Hagrid sighed.

"I'll talk to yer uncle," he said. "But you have ter promise me ter keep yer nose out of this business." 

"How's talking to my uncle going to fix this?" asked Harold. "It's Fluffy who did the bad thing, not Uncle Severus. You should talk to Fluffy."

Hagrid chuckled and put his mug down on the table.

"Talking's not going ter do it, unless yeh count singin'. Tell yer what, I'll tell yer uncle how to manage me dog, an' you just steer clear of 'im, all right?"

"All right," Harold stretched out his hand to shake on it. He had no intention of getting anywhere near that mangy beast.


	11. Christmas

The remaining weeks of the first term flew by. The thin layer of frost turned into several feet of snow and the ice on the edges of the lake grew inward until the whole surface was frozen solid. The Weasley twins from Gryffindor earned themselves a week's worth of detention for attacking Professor Quirrell with enchanted snowballs, and were ordered to help Hagrid nurse the school owls who had been sent out despite the stormy weather to deliver mail.

Everyone was getting ready for the holidays. One evening in the first week of December, Harold was talking to Salazar about Millie's latest jaw-dropping success in Transfiguration when Uncle Severus called out to him from the study next door. As Harold came in through the door by the blackboard, his uncle looked up from his desk and put aside the Potions essay he had been grading. Then he folded his hands and exhaled a long breath through his nose before he spoke.

"Dumbledore has asked me to remain at Hogwarts over the Christmas Holidays."

"What?" Harold stumbled forward. "No."

"I have already agreed to stay."

"But I promised Moll we'd be home for Christmas." Harold's eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle a bad word. "I never even wrote to her!"

Uncle Severus snorted and shook his head.

"Be that as it may, I have agreed to Dumbledore's request. We will be spending the holidays at school. I will go into town on Saturday to call Moll and notify her of the arrangement. If you would like me to take a letter for her, I suggest you sit down and write it soon."

"I will. But why?" Seeing Uncle Severus raise his brows, Harold clarified. "Why does he need you to stay here? I'm sure there are other teachers who could--"

The realization felt like a flick to his forehead. He knew exactly why Dumbledore wanted Uncle Severus to stay.

"It's that Fluffy business, isn't it?" he said angrily. "Whatever it is, he's dragged you into it, and you already got bit, and now we can't even go home for Christmas because of it." Harold's cheeks felt hot and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Why can't you tell him no? Just what on earth is it that's so important? He's supposedly the 'greatest wizard of modern times'." Harold quoted the most common Chocolate Frog collectors card of all. "Why can't he take care of his own sh--"

"Harold!" Uncle Severus snapped.

Harold crossed his arms harder and pressed his lips together with a mutinous glare. He was furious. His uncle placed his hands flat on the desktop and regarded him with a tight expression.

"I have given Dumbledore my word, and I am bound to it. There is nothing else to discuss. Now, I suggest you go and write a letter to Moll, so that I can take it to the Muggle post office on Saturday."

Harold stormed out of the study, told Salazar goodbye on his way out, and slammed the door to the Potions classroom behind him.

Back in the common room, he sat down and wrote a long letter to Moll, apologizing profusely for not writing sooner, and telling her everything he was able to share without giving away anything related to magic. He told her about his new friends, Hermione, Justin, Neville, Blaise, and Millie. He told her how his dorm's team won the first game of the season 190 to 50 (without mentioning what sport they were playing). He even told her how they would sneak into the school kitchens because one of the kitchen staff liked Neville so much that they could get away with it. He also told her how sorry he was that they would not be able to come home for Christmas and that he thought the headmaster was a spiteful codger for making them stay at school.

All the while in the back of his mind, Harold was stewing over what was so vital that Dumbledore needed to rope in Uncle Severus on top of Hagrid's mangy, man-eating beast, Fluffy, to protect it around the clock. This time, he was determined to dig deeper.

 

Friday before the start of class, he handed the letter to Uncle Severus without a word. He didn't raise his hand once during the whole double session, and gave the shortest possible answer both times that his uncle tried to call on him.

During morning break, he passed Hermione on his way to Transfiguration and made plans to meet up with her in the kitchens after their final class that day. He caught up with Neville and Justin during lunch in the Great Hall and told them the same. Once the bell released everyone at three-twenty in the afternoon, they showed up one after the other in front of the painting with the giant bowl of fruit. Neville tickled the pear to let them in, and Puddy welcomed them with lemon snaps and tea.

"So, I'm stuck at Hogwarts for Christmas," Harold announced as soon as they were seated around the table.

"What?"

"Why?"

"Did you fail a class?"

The last question had come from Hermione and earned her all-around disbelieving looks. She shrugged. Harold rolled his eyes and dunked a lemon snap into his tea.

"No, it's the Fluffy business. My uncle got dragged into it."

"Ah." Hermione nodded in understanding, but Justin and Neville exchanged quizzical looks and said, "Huh?"

"Oh, we never told you, did we?"

Harold quickly filled them in on the story of Fluffy and about how Uncle Severus got bit the day before the first Quidditch match. When Hermione's eyes went wide as saucers and she asked in a squeaky voice if Professor Snape was all right, Harold realized that he had never told her about that part either.

"Yeah, he's fine now. Anyway, I want to know what it is that keeps us from spending Christmas at home. Will you help me?"

"Of course," said Justin. "But where would we even start?"

"When Uncle Severus was all out of sorts, I remember he said something about a stone. Yeah, he said that it doesn't belong to Dumbledore."

Neville frowned. "But how are we going to look for something that doesn't belong to Dumbledore? Isn't that like looking for something in a place that you know it's not?"

Hermione snickered, Harold snorted, and even Justin had to duck his head and pretend he was scratching his nose.

"Neville," said Hermione. "We start by finding out what exactly it is that we're looking for. We know it's a stone."

"And not just any stone," said Harold. "It has to be one that is magical, and powerful enough that you would want to protect it with dragons, and curses, and man-eating dogs."

"Oh, right," said Neville. "There can't be too many of those."

"So we hit the books?" asked Justin.

"You got it." Harold nodded. "Anything that fits the description, no matter how far-fetched it seems."

They quickly finished their tea and lemon snaps, left the kitchen, and headed upstairs to the library.

By Saturday afternoon they had accumulated a surprisingly long list of magical stones, including Aldur's Orb, the bloodsucking Eye of Argon, the Resurrection Stone, the Tide Stones Kanju and Manju, the Philosopher's Stone, the Weirdstone of Brisingamen, and the Yasakani no Magatama. Madam Pince had been unexpectedly helpful, pointing them in the right direction to find books like One Thousand Famous Historical Artifacts or Popular Precious Possessions. Hermione had collected all of their work and put together a neat, alphabetized list with the most important notes on each individual stone's properties. They returned to the kitchen on Sunday after breakfast, squeezing into a corner near the enormous fireplace. Pots, pans, dishes, and goblets, and the occasional dirty napkin, flew over their heads as the house-elves worked around them, using magic to clean up after the meal.

"I think we can rule out the Yasakani no Magatama," said Hermione. "That's not even in the country, and it's supposed to inspire benevolence in whoever carries it."

"Yeah," said Neville, "And we can definitely scratch the Resurrection Stone."

"Why's that?" asked Hermione.

"Because it's a fairytale," said Harold and Neville at the same time.

"Oh, okay." Hermione scratched the Resurrection Stone off the list. "How about Kanju and Manju?"

"Maybe," said Harold. "I guess you could cause some real harm with stones that control the tide. Keep them on the list."

"The Eye of Argon sounds pretty dangerous," said Justin, pointing at the short description of the bloodsucking red beryl.

"It's no more dangerous than a vampire." Harold shrugged. "I don't know. It just doesn't sound bad enough that Dumbledore would need Fluffy and Uncle Severus for it."

"Okay," said Justin. "Scratch the Eye of Argon. What about the Weirdstone then?"

The discussion went on like that for a while until the four of them had narrowed down the list to four potential candidates, one for each of them, to research any connection they might have to Dumbledore.

This part was much more difficult, and they soon hit a snag. It didn't help that classes, homework, and mealtimes kept them away from their research. Even though they devoted as much time as possible to it, they still hadn't found anything two days before everyone except Harold was leaving. 

 

When Harold came up from the dungeons for his break between Potions and Transfiguration, he almost walked into an enormous fir tree at the top of the stairs. A pair of giant beaver-skin boots sticking out at the bottom made it easy to guess who was carrying it.

"Oh, hello, Hagrid."

"Hello, Harold," said Hagrid, just as the first few Gryffindors came barging up the stairs.

"Oy, need help with that?" said Weasley jokingly as he bent one of the branches to look through them at Hagrid.

"Do you mind?" Malfoy sneered, stepping around all of them into the entrance hall. "If you're trying to earn some extra money, Weasley, do it elsewhere."

Harold rolled his eyes at his annoying House mate. Malfoy never missed a chance to goad Weasley, even though it was like purposely poking a hornet's nest.

"What," said Malfoy, "are you hoping to become the next gamekeeper? Or just trying to earn enough money so your family can afford to have you home for Christmas next year?"

Harold jumped out of the way as Weasley charged at Malfoy.

"WEASLEY!"

He closed his eyes and moved away from the troublemakers as his uncle glided up the steps like a specter of impending doom.

"He was provoked, Professor Snape," said Hagrid, poking his head around the tree. "The other kid was insultin' his family."

"Be that as it may," said Uncle Severus in his honey-coated tone for especially obtuse people. "Fighting is against the rules. Five points from Gryffindor. Now, move along, everyone. You are blocking the main stairway." Then he continued up the marble staircase.

Malfoy trotted off with a big smirk on his face, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy trailing after him toward the Transfiguration classroom. Harold checked his watch. They still had fifteen minutes left of their twenty minute morning break.

"I'll get him, one of these days."

Harold turned around at the growled threat. Weasley was still standing there, fists clenched at his sides, staring after Malfoy and his followers.

"You know," Harold said, "If you didn't rise to the bait every time, he'd probably get bored and leave you alone."

"Oh, whatever," scoffed the redhead. "Don't pretend you care. You're a snake, just like him."

Harold watched with his mouth hanging open as Weasley stormed off, wondering what the redhead's problem was. He had never said or done anything to deserve that kind of attitude.

"Suit yourself," he muttered under his breath before he turned to Hagrid. "Where are you taking that tree, anyway?"

"Huh? Oh, Great Hall," Hagrid said. "It's a Christmas tradition. You'll see when you come in for lunch."

Harold nodded. With less than fifteen minutes until Transfiguration class, he decided he might as well head straight to the classroom.

 

 

The Great Hall had been transformed into a Christmas wonderland. Twelve dense fir trees had been set up throughout the room; some were decorated with glittering icicles, others with golden baubles, all of them aglow with hundreds of lit candles. Garlands of holly and mistletoe were strung along the walls, and small wreaths were wrapped around the floating candles above the tables. Above it all, downy snowflakes drizzled from the enchanted ceiling.

It was all a bit much in Harold's opinion.

Last year (and the year before that, and for as far back as he remembered), Uncle Severus and he had visited the Cokeworth Christmas Tree Trader on the day before Christmas Eve. They had picked a small fir tree that would fit on the coffee table in the sitting room. Then they had moved the table to the corner by the window and decorated the tree with small white candles, silver ornaments, and a shining gold star on the top. On Christmas Eve, they would visit Moll for dinner and board games, and on Christmas morning there would be a small pile of presents under the tree in the sitting room.

Harold left the Great Hall without eating lunch.

He spent the hour before Herbology in the Potions classroom, feeding his snake instead. After two newts and a frog, Salazar told him about the spectacular cauldron explosion that had happened in the lesson before lunch; one of the sixth years had added cold armadillo bile to a silver cauldron full of boiling Lethe river water.

"Your uncle was furious," hissed Salazar. "Dismissed him from class, permanently. Said he'll never accept anyone with less than an Outstanding past fifth year from now."

"How many students were hit?"

"Almost everyone," hissed Salazar. "Some forgot how to breathe. Dropped like mice."

Harold winced. It was no wonder he hadn't seen his uncle at the staff table. He was probably still in the hospital wing, helping Madam Pomfrey care for the victims of the explosion.

 

Uncle Severus didn't make an appearance for dinner either, or for breakfast the next morning. If Harold wasn't still angry with him for submitting to Dumbledore's orders, he would have poked his head into the study. As it was, he spent the last day before the holidays with Neville, Justin, and Hermione. They had decided to give their research a rest and play games in the warm kitchens.

Justin had brought his Muggle chess set and was trying to teach Hermione how to play.

"It's really not that difficult," he said, moving the white knight two squares forward and one to the left. "I just wish mine moved by themselves like Susan's."

Harold and Neville exchanged a glance across the table, grinning.

They had pooled their allowances and managed to scrape together enough money for a used wizard chess set. The game was identical to the Muggle version in every way, except the pieces were enchanted to come to life when they were placed on the board; they could give the player advice and moved by themselves according to the rules of the game. The package was wrapped up and stowed in Justin's trunk. He had no idea what it was and had promised not to open it until Christmas morning. 

"And what do we have here?"

All four of them jumped at the drawling voice, whirling around to face the entrance.

"Ickle firsties breaking the rules!"

The Weasley twins were standing side by side, arms crossed in front of their chests, with identical smirks on their faces.

"Tut-tut," said the one on the left.

"What would your Heads of House say?" said the one on the right.

The twins looked at each other with cheeky grins.

"What's this!" said the twin on the left, imitating the no-nonsense tone of Professor Sprout. "First years in the kitchen, not lifting a finger to help? Five points from each of you!"

"I really -- No, really, I must say," squeaked the twin on the right in Professor Flitwick's outraged stammer.

"Be that as it may," drawled the twin on the left, "Ten points from everyone, except Slytherin. Slytherin, you can have a hundred extra points for being Slytherin."

Harold narrowed his eyes and glared at them.

"Are you finished?" he asked coldly.

The twins raised their brows, looked at each other, shrugged, and played a quick hand of rock-paper-scissors. The twin on the left won. He cleared his throat.

"Fred and George Weasley," he bellowed in Professor McGonagall's unmistakable Scottish bur. "Out of bounds, again! Have you no shame? Besmirching the great name and honor of our House! Godric Gryffindor is rolling in his grave." 

Everyone else laughed. Only Harold did not find the twins particularly funny. His uncle wasn't nearly as biased as they had made him out to be; it was the Gryffindors who always got preferential treatment by their teachers.

"Don't mind us, really," said the left twin. "We're just breezing through."

"Got to pick up something to nosh on our way out," said the one on the right.

Harold watched as the house-elves bounded toward them with a large picnic basket.

"Oh, look," said leftie, "Chess."

"Yeah," said his brother, "but why aren't they moving? Did you break them?"

"It's Muggle chess," said Justin. "They don't move on their own."

"Fascinating, you should show our brother, Ron. He'd flip."

"Nah," said the other. "Remember, he's 'fully dedicated to the team' now. No more time for chess."

Both of them rolled their eyes and made retching noises in their throats.

"Anyway," said leftie, "see you later, firsties."

"Have fun!" said his twin and then pointed a finger at them. "Your secret's as safe with us as ours is with you."

Having said their goodbyes, they were gone as swiftly as they had appeared.

 

Sunday morning, after everyone had left, Harold felt terribly alone. All of the Slytherin first years had gone home; and the few older students who had chosen to stay were busy studying for their big end of year exams. With all of his friends gone, Harold spent most of the day in the library before he checked in on Salazar after dinner.

After three days of the same, Harold felt so lonely on Christmas Eve he decided to make up with Uncle Severus after dinner, even though he was still mad they were stuck at school over the holidays.

But when he tried to open the door next to the blackboard it was locked, and when he went outside and knocked on the door to Uncle Severus's private chambers from the main dungeon corridor, he received no answer.

Disappointed and more than a little homesick, Harold went back to the Slytherin common room and straight through to his empty dormitory. He stared out of the window into the lake until he was tired and went to bed early.

When he woke up the next morning, he was surprised to see a small pile of packages atop his trunk at the foot of the bed. Harold felt equal parts excited and annoyed. It was great that he would not miss out on Christmas presents; but those packages were supposed to be under a pretty little fir tree in their sitting room at home and so was he. 

There were two envelopes and several parcels of different shapes and sizes. He picked up the first envelope. It was from Neville, and, when he opened it, a tiny broomstick fell out.

Harold picked up the broomstick and read the card.

> Dear Harold,
> 
> Merry Christmas! I'm sorry I couldn't get you a real broom, but I got you an annual subscription to All Out Quidditch. It doesn't start until January, sorry. Merry Christmas again!
> 
> Neville

Harold smiled. He was looking forward to getting the monthly Quidditch magazine. He had never been able to buy it while they were still at home. He hoped Neville would like the present Harold had sent to his home: One Thousand Popular Potions Plants and Fungi, a thick book that examined the plants and fungi in detail and with moving illustrations. 

He placed the broomstick back in the card, put it aside, and picked up the next envelope.

It was a letter from Moll, and it went together with the big, squishy package it had sat on.

A lump formed in Harold's throat as he read the letter, and he sniffled a little when he opened the package. Moll had assured him she wasn't angry and had sent something for him and for each of his friends. There was a pair of thick woolen socks for Harold, bommel hats for Justin, Neville, and Blaise, and two pairs of mittens for Hermione and Millie.

Harold put on the soft, warm socks before he opened the next package. It was from Justin: a framed picture of the Finney Green Fighters, Harold's favorite Quidditch team, with autographs from all seven players. 

He carefully placed the picture on his bedside table, next to the photograph of him and Uncle Severus in front of the Oakshaft 79. In the picture, Uncle Severus looked to the side before he turned his head to the camera with a nasty scowl. Then Harold's image looked up to say thank you and his uncle's face twitched with a surprised look before he stared back at the camera with a wobbly smirk. With the second picture frame next to it, it looked as if Uncle Severus was scowling at the Finney Green Fighters.

Harold snickered and went back to his presents.

Hermione had gotten him a copy of the latest edition of Quidditch Through the Ages. He placed the book in his bedside drawer. 

That only left two packages. The first was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a hemp cord, making it obvious that it was from Uncle Severus. The second was wrapped in red paper with a gold bow. Harold grabbed his uncle's package first.

It was heavy and solid. He parted the paper and found a size four golden cauldron. Picking it up, he noticed that the cauldron was heavier than it should be. He removed the satin cloth from its belly. There was another, smaller package inside the cauldron.

Harold pulled out the rectangular box and pried it open.

On a bed of blue satin branded with the golden, curly signature of Ignatio P. Blinker rested a pair of magical brass binoculars. Their hard shell was polished to a shine and the large lenses could be adjusted with a small toothed wheel between the two telescopes. This particular model was capable of self-focusing on a moving object and could zoom in close enough to see the markings on the back of a flying Snitch. 

Harold grabbed the binoculars, jumped off the bed, dashed out of his dormitory, straight through the common room, and down the main corridor to his uncle's private chambers where he drummed his fist against the door.

"Uncle Severus!"

His heart was thumping and his breath hiccupped with excitement.

"Uncle Severus, it's me!"

He pounded his fist harder against the door.

"I got your gift! It's amazing. It's the best ever! Please, let me in."

But there was no answer, and the door remained closed.

Harold's shoulders drooped and he shuffled back to his dormitory.

He didn't bother to go to the Great Hall for Christmas dinner. He had a feeling his uncle wouldn't be there, too busy with protecting that stupid stone, whatever it was. It was all Dumbledore's fault.

Harold wished they were home. As he sulked on his bed, his gaze drifted over the final package on the bed. The wrapping was an eye-sore, and he had no idea who it could be from.

When he tore apart the wrapping, silky silver fabric slithered out, and something solid dropped on the mattress in front of him with a soft thud.

He pulled up the glittering silver cloth and found a tiny golden key and a note penned in narrow, loopy handwriting.

> Your father left this cloak in my possession before he died. Use it well. The key will unlock the Potter vault at Gringotts should you choose to embrace your true heritage.
> 
> A Very Merry Christmas to you

There was no signature, but Harold wasn't an idiot. His uncle had assured him back in September that the only people who knew about his true identity were Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. Between the two, it was obvious that this came from Dumbledore.

Harold placed the vault key in his bedside drawer and picked up the cloak. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with the flashy silver thing. It looked like something that would belong to a Muggle magician not a real wizard. It was much too long for him as well. He hopped off the bed and threw the cloak over his shoulders, expecting to see most of the cloth pool on the floor around his feet. 

He saw nothing but the flagged stone floor of the dormitory.

His eyes widened. He flipped the cloth aside. One of his pajama-clad legs appeared out of thin air. He flipped it back. His leg disappeared.

"Wow," he breathed.

Harold couldn't believe it. He pulled the hood over his head and rushed into the common room.

A few older Slytherins were sitting in the tall arm chairs by the crackling fire, reading or talking quietly to each other. Terence Higgs was slouched in one of the chairs with a book over his face, trying to absorb seventh year Transfiguration through his forehead, or maybe just napping.

Harold stepped right up in front of him and lightly kicked his foot.

Terence jerked and bolted upright, dropping the book in his lap as he looked around.

"Who did that?"

His eyes passed right over Harold three times as he looked back and forth.

"C'mon, guys. Which one of you hit me with a Poker?"  

The other Slytherins looked at each other and then, right through Harold, they looked at Terence with puzzled shrugs and headshakes.

Terence grumbled under his breath, dropped the book back on his forehead, and slumped back in his chair.

Harold tiptoed back into his dormitory and flopped down on his mattress with an amazed grin.

He was the brand-new owner of an Invisibility Cloak.

He could go anywhere, do anything, and nobody would be the wiser.

He could go into the forbidden third-floor corridor and sneak right past Fluffy.

Harold sat up on the edge of his bed, chewing on his lip as he thought about it. He knew exactly what Uncle Severus would say to this idea. His uncle would never allow him to keep the cloak if he found out about it. He hated everything to do with Harold's father, for one, and would never condone an item whose sole purpose was to sneak around unnoticed. A determined expression crossed Harold's face as he made up his mind. He would just have to make sure Uncle Severus didn't find out. Then tonight, when everyone was asleep, he would put on the cloak and find out exactly what stupid stone Dumbledore so badly needed to have guarded.


	12. The Mirror of Erised

Harold waited quietly until the bell in the clock tower struck one in the morning. Then he put on the Invisibility Cloak and sneaked out of his dormitory. At this time of night even the prefects were in bed. He would only have to watch out for the caretaker, Filch, and his shrewd cat, Mrs. Norris, on his way up the main staircase to the third floor.

There was something suspicious about the grumpy old man and his familiar. Harold had heard stories in the common room that you only needed to set a toe out of line in front of Mrs. Norris, and Filch would know. He would show up within seconds. Both of them had the same bulging, lamp-like eyes; and rumor had it Filch had someone else perform a spell that allowed him to see through Mrs. Norris's eyes. Someone else would have had to because Argus Filch was a Squib -- the only Squib in all of Hogwarts. He thought it was a secret, but everyone in Slytherin was well aware that the grizzled, wrinkled man had no more magic in him than a Muggle broomstick.

Harold pulled the Invisibility Cloak tighter around his shoulders as he hovered on the last step up into the entrance hall. Only a few torches were lit along the walls, casting spots of brightness into the inky black void. He looked around, fearful of the flash of lamp-like eyes in the dark crevices and corners of the hall.

After a few seconds he set foot on the flagged stone floor and hurried quietly onto the next set of stairs. He crept up the marble staircase along the banister, as far away as possible from the sconces and portraits along the walls. On the second floor landing he stopped and waited, pressed tightly to the wall, for the stairs to change direction. In his hurry to get up to the third floor before they moved again, he almost fell right through the vanishing step, but he caught himself on the banister at the last moment.

Breathing as quietly as he could, he stood in front of the forbidden door, peering over his shoulder down the left side corridor. There was no one. No lamp-like eyes shone in the dark corners. No footsteps echoed on the ground. The only sounds he could hear were the quiet crackle of the torches and the soft drip of water coming from the pipes inside the walls.

Harold took a shuddering breath and turned to the door. He placed his cloaked hand over the knob, twisted it until it went no further, and pulled.

It was locked.

His heart started to pound in his chest. With trembling fingers, he pulled his wand from the waistband of his pajama pants and poked the tip of it out of the Invisibility Cloak, pointing it at the doorknob. He cast one last glance over his shoulder, didn't see anybody, and whispered as quietly as he could.

"Alohomora."

He flinched. The click from the lock had seemed like a thunderclap in the silence.

Very slowly, Harold twisted the knob again. The door opened without a sound.

He took one step inside and froze.

In front of him, illuminated by the torches along the right-hand side corridor, lay Fluffy.

Three heads, each the size of a boulder, rested quietly on a pair of massive front paws. The three pairs of eyes were closed, three large, wet noses twitching. The enormous body of the beast blocked the entire width of the corridor where it was curled up.

Harold didn't dare to move. He looked around wildly for a way around Fluffy. There were doors along the corridor. Each one of them could hide the stone he was looking for. A gust of hot air blew across his face as one of the heads huffed. The giant paws shifted, claws the size of hunting knives scraping the wood beneath them.

Harold's eyes widened. There was a trapdoor buried under the sleeping body of the beast.

He didn't need to get around Fluffy. His mouth fell open and he started to tremble as he realized his dilemma. He needed to get under Fluffy and through that trapdoor.

Another gust of hot air blew across his face.

Fluffy snuffled. All three heads took a long, deep sniff at the same time. Three pairs of eyes opened, rolling madly until they settled on a spot in front of them: directly on Harold.

It was impossible. He was invisible. The cloak protected him from being seen. Fluffy was just staring at the empty door. He would settle back down in a second.

Fluffy rose to his feet. All three heads started to growl. Razor-sharp teeth, dripping with drool, poked out between quivering jowls.

Harold whirled around and fled. He slammed the door behind him and dashed down the corridor. Almost immediately, he heard a voice shout in the distance.

"Who's there?"

He dashed up the stairs and bolted along a dark corridor, trying to get as far away from the voice as possible. Beside a tall suit of armor, he stopped, looking down a narrow side passage. He ducked behind the suit and listened, holding his breath.

"Professor! Over here."

The rasping, grouchy voice belonged to Filch, and it was getting closer.

"What do you want?"

The quiet snarl was difficult to hear but impossible to mistake. Harold closed his eyes.

Filch was coming up the stairs with Uncle Severus.

"You asked me to find you at once if anyone was wandering around at night. Someone was in the Forbidden Corridor. They slammed the door!"

"They can't be far," said Uncle Severus. "We'll catch them."

The footsteps on the staircase quickened and Harold could see the light of Filch's lamp coming down the main hallway.

He backed away quickly, trying not to make a sound. If Filch had been alone, he would have trusted the Invisibility Cloak to protect him, but his uncle would surely know. He would be able to find him out, just like Fluffy had.

A door on the left was open. The crack was just wide enough that Harold could squeeze through without touching it. He didn't dare to close the door from the inside, terrified that even the slightest sound would draw the attention of Filch and Uncle Severus.

Harold held his breath and watched. The light streaming in through the slightly open door got brighter; the orange beam crawled toward him across the flagged stone floor until it stopped, right under his invisible feet. Harold stared at the bottom of the door, willing it not to open any further. He stood perfectly still. Then the strip of light drifted sideways on the ground and disappeared.

When the sound of footsteps faded, Harold released a shuddering breath and turned around to take a look at the room he had ducked into.

An old unused classroom stretched out in front of him. Moonlight streamed through the windows and painted long pale strips onto the ground, allowing him to see the black shadows of desks and chairs piled up against the walls.

On the far wall, something reflected the pale gray light. It was a tall, gold-framed mirror on two clawed feet that nearly reached the ceiling. Across the top of the elaborate frame, there was an inscription carved in curly letters. Harold stepped closer so he could read: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

He looked from the inscription down at the glass, and jumped back with a startled gasp. The mirror could see him, and there was someone else in the room. He twisted around and looked behind him, but there was no one there.

Harold sucked in shaky breaths and looked back at the mirror. There was a woman in there. She was tall and pretty, with dark red hair and bright green eyes -- bright green eyes the same as his.

She was standing right behind him now, and she was crying even as she smiled down at him.

"Mum?" he whispered.

He looked at himself and quickly tried to comb through his disheveled hair. His eyes widened, and he clapped a hand over his forehead. His scar was visible in the mirror. A bright lightning bolt zigzagged across his forehead, but the skin under his fingers felt smooth. He hadn't forgotten to put on the salve. He wasn't due to use it again until tomorrow.

What was this mirror that it could see through magic and at the same time show him his dead mother? Why would somebody just leave it in an unused classroom behind an open door? What was the meaning of the odd inscription at the top of the frame?

Harold sank to his knees and looked at her, his head full of questions. He knew so little about her, only what his uncle had told him. She did look like an angel.

He sat quietly, staring at his mother for a long time. She never stopped smiling and after a while, he saw her place her arm around mirror Harold's shoulder, comb her fingers through his hair, and kiss the lightning bolt on his forehead.

Harold on the cold stone floor felt a terrible pang inside his chest and a strange desire to climb through the looking glass and trade places with his mirror image.

Instead, all he could do was sit and watch as his mother held the boy in her arms and her lips moved soundlessly as she spoke to him.

He didn't know how long he watched them. They didn't change or fade and he couldn't stop looking. A noise from outside the window pulled him out of his trance. The first colors of dawn were beginning to tint the horizon, painting orange squares of light onto the flagged stone floor. Harold shook himself and rose to his feet. Without looking into the mirror again, he hurried back to his dormitory.

 

After a few hours of restless sleep and a piece of toast for breakfast, he returned to the mirror without the cloak. He forgot time, hunger, and everything else as he watched himself rock inside his mother's arms on the other side of the looking glass. He was still sitting on the stone floor in front of it when the sun outside crept up past the windows and the shadows in the room grew longer.

"Oy, you want to scoot over?"

Harold gasped and whirled around at the loud voice.

The Weasley twins were standing right behind him, and he hadn't even noticed them enter the room.

"Are you all right?" said the one on the left, who was wearing a blue sweater with a large yellow F on it.

"You looked a little dazed there," said the other twin, who was wearing an identical blue sweater but with a large yellow G.

"Yeah," said Harold, shaking his head. "It's this mirror. It's incredible."

"What, that old thing?" said the twin with the F.

"We don't bother looking into it," said his brother. "We're more interested in what's behind it," he added with a knowing grin.

"What's behind it?" asked Harold, still dazed from watching his mother the whole morning.

"Oh, he doesn't know," said F.

"Of course he doesn't know," said G. "He's just a firstie."

"We were firsties when we found it," said F.

"True," said G.

"Watch this!" they both said together.

Harold watched open-mouthed and with his hands outstretched in protest as each twin grabbed one side of the ornate golden frame and shoved the mirror aside. The wall behind it was missing stones, creating a tall, narrow, dark gap.

"What--"

Harold stared as first one twin and then the other disappeared completely inside the gap. Then a white, freckled hand reappeared, pointing a finger at Harold.

"Don't tell anyone! We'll know it was you if you do."

"Where are you going?" Harold asked.

"Hogsmeade." The reply came from somewhere deep inside the walls.

Harold shook his head in wonder and shifted to sit in front of the mirror again; it only worked when he looked directly at it.

He was still watching himself in his mother's arms, sitting as close to the mirror as he could, when he heard voices approaching.

"-- a sad thing for a joke shop."

"I know! We could do so much -- Oy. You're still here?"

Harold didn't react. If he ignored them, they were sure to go away. He wrapped his arms around his knees and smiled at his mother in the mirror.

Freckled hands pulled him up by his arms, dragging him away from her. 

"Let me go!" he shouted, stumbling back from the twins. He didn't care what they did or why they were there, he just wanted to be left alone with his mother. "Leave me alone!"

The twins looked at each other before they turned their eyes back to him.

"Firstie," said the one with the F on his sweater. "You've been sitting there for hours. It's past dinner time."

"Harold," he snapped. "My name is Harold."

"Harold," said the boy with the F. "My name is George, this is Fred," he said, pointing at his brother with the G on his sweater, "and you need to get away from that mirror."

"Honestly," said Fred, "You look a bit peaky, and did you bang your head on it or something? You've got a ..."

Harold slapped a hand over his forehead. He could feel the ridge where his scar was starting to reappear. His eyes widened and he jumped to his feet, bolted past the twins, and ran back to his dormitory as fast as he could.

 

 

The shock of nearly being discovered kept Harold away from the mirror for a whole day. He agonized over not being able to see his mother, and barely ate anything during meal times. He kept checking his forehead in every reflective surface. How could he have forgotten to put on the salve? He had been doing it every other day for so long that it was an instinctive habit, like wetting his toothbrush or putting on his right sock before his left. If the twins hadn't found him when they did, would he have sat in that room until the whole lightning bolt was visible on his forehead? What would have happened if Fred and George had recognized him for who he really was? He would have to be more careful in the future and wear his Invisibility Cloak every time he visited his mother.

Harold waited until midnight before he wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, flipped the hood over his head, and sneaked out of the common room and up the main staircase. He barely paid attention to Mrs. Norris when he crossed her path on the moving stairs, narrowly avoided Professor Quirrell on the third floor landing, and hurried up the next staircase just one step ahead of the light of Filch's lantern. His biggest fear was that after a whole day away from it, the mirror might no longer be there. When he finally stepped inside the unused classroom behind the suit of armor on the fourth floor, Harold breathed a sigh of relief. 

The mirror was still standing against the far wall. The twins must have moved it back in front of the secret passage because Harold could no longer see the black crevice in the wall.

A grin stretched his cheeks as he hurried across the room to sit with his mother.

"Back again, Harry?"

He whirled around mid-step, clapped an invisible hand to his invisible forehead, and stared wide-eyed into the darkness.

"Who's there?" he asked in a trembling voice.

His forehead felt smooth. Moreover, he was wearing the Invisibility Cloak. No person should be able to see him. He turned and gazed skeptically at the mirror. Was it possible that it was enchanted to speak? But then why hadn't it spoken before? 

"Over here, Harry."

Harold spun away from the mirror again. The voice was coming out of the darkness behind him.

"Stop calling me that. My name is Harold."

"As you wish."

There was a deep sigh and something moved between the shadows of the upturned desks and chairs. Albus Dumbledore stepped forward into a long shaft of pale gray moonlight.

"What are you doing here?" asked Harold, only belatedly remembering to add, "Sir."

"I came to retrieve the mirror I had stored here," said Dumbledore. "I see that you have discovered its treacherous delights."

"Treacherous?" Harold frowned. "What do you mean? If anything, it prevents treachery. It can see right through this cloak." He pulled the hood down to show his face and pointed at his smooth forehead. "It can even see my scar."

"Is that so?" said Dumbledore with a strange smile. "That is interesting. But alas, it does not show you the truth, or the past, or the future. The Mirror of Erised is a much more sinister creature, I'm afraid."

Harold noticed that as Dumbledore stepped closer he avoided looking directly at the mirror.

"Have you noticed the inscription on the frame?"

"Yeah, I--"

He had wondered what it meant and then forgotten all about it as soon as he had laid eyes on his mother. Now, he took a second look at the strange writing.

"What does it mean? It looks like it's written in a foreign language."

"A childish trick," said Dumbledore, "poorly executed. Try to imagine what you would see if you looked at the words through a mirror."

Harold frowned. Then his face cleared up and he read the words slowly from right to left.

"I show not your face but your heart's desire."

Tears sprang to his eyes as Harold realized the truth. What he had seen in the mirror had never been his mother. It was only a reflection of what he so badly wanted her to be.

Dumbledore took another step closer to Harold.

"That's right," he said quietly. "This mirror shows us nothing but the deepest, most desperate desire we carry in our heart. It will give you neither knowledge nor truth, but it may well take something away from you. People have wasted away to nothing or been driven insane by what they were shown in this mirror."

Anger began to build inside Harold. The image in the mirror had never been real. The Mirror of Erised had betrayed him and taken advantage of his weakness, trying to drive him insane. His hands clenched into fists as he glared at the words carved into the golden frame until bony hands grasped his invisible shoulders and turned him around.

Dumbledore looked down on him with a kind smile and glittering eyes full of pity.

"The mirror will be gone by tomorrow morning. Please promise me you won't look for it again."

Harold's eyes burned as he wiped the tears from his face and glared up at Dumbledore.

"Don't worry," he said coldly. "I have no intention of ever looking at that thing again."

For all he cared, Dumbledore could shatter the traitorous thing into a million pieces and it would only be fair. He pulled the hood back over his face and ran out the door before Dumbledore could say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for the wonderful kudos and comments. I love reading them probably more than I should because I'm a glutton for feedback. It's my second favorite treat after chocolate.


	13. The Philosopher's Stone

Even though Harold tried to push the mirror out of his mind, he couldn't forget what he had seen inside it. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of his mother appeared before him, a gentle smile on her face as she combed her fingers through his messy hair and kissed the scar on his forehead. It was no surprise the mirror had driven people insane.

Harold kept his eyes open as much as possible and tried to distract himself; he spent hours talking to Salazar in the Potions classroom. He tried to explain his feelings about the mirror, but he could tell that his snake friend didn't understand. Harold couldn't blame him. He himself was still wrestling with the intense longing and anger pulling at him from opposite sides.

The door by the blackboard remained locked, and Harold gave up on knocking at his uncle's door. Whatever Uncle Severus was doing for Dumbledore kept him so busy, he was rarely in his private chambers and only showed up in the Great Hall for a very early breakfast and the occasional dinner. The only one who was seen at the staff table even less frequently was Professor Quirrell, and Harold only noticed his absence because the large purple turban was hard to miss when he was around.

Time passed excruciatingly slowly and Harold had never been so happy than when Justin, Neville, and Hermione returned the day before their next term started.

After lunch, they all went to the kitchens together and settled in their usual corner by the enormous fireplace. Harold told them about the Invisibility Cloak and the Mirror of Erised, relieved that he finally had someone to talk to who might understand his feelings.

"Oh, that's horrible!" shouted Hermione. "Wasting a whole day in front of that mirror." She shook her head. "And what if Filch had caught you out of bed at night?"

Harold sighed.

Neville, who hadn't said anything the whole time, raised his head with a worried frown.

"Are you okay?" he asked and continued in a voice so quiet, it was barely audible over the noise of pots and pans swooping over their heads. "I mean, it must have been hard, seeing your mum like that, not being able to talk to her."

"Yeah," said Harold. "I'm just -- really angry! I mean, the whole time I thought maybe if I look long enough, I can hear her, and then we could talk, and I could ask her about all the things, and she could tell me everything I've ever wanted to know and then--" He cut himself off with a frustrated huff. "And then it turns out it was just a lie all along. She was never really there. And I'm never going to talk to her and it just makes me so angry I want to punch someone -- Does that make sense?"

He looked up, wiping at his eyes, and searched for understanding in his friends' faces.

"Yeah," said Neville. "Makes perfect sense."

Justin, who had been setting up his brand new wizard chess set, looked up at Neville with a sad expression and placed a hand on his shoulder. Neville turned his head with a crooked smile.

"My parents are in St. Mungos." He wiped at his eyes the same way Harold had and raised his chin. "Janus Thickey ward for permanent spell damage. They're --" He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They were Aurors, fighting against You-Know-Who in the war, and when the Death Eaters caught them, they were tortured. Now they're just ... not right. They won't even recognize me, or my gran, or anyone, really. Except sometimes--" He pushed one hand into the pocket of his robes. "Sometimes I think my mum almost does, but then she runs off and it's all gone again. So yeah, I get it."

Hermione looked at Neville with an expression of shock and sympathy as Justin rubbed a hand over his shoulder. Neville cleared his throat and shook himself.

"Anyway," he said. "Did you guys get anywhere with researching your stone over the hols? I swear I turned over every book in Gran's library twice, but everything I found about Dumbledore fits on the back of a Chocolate Frog card."

"Muggle-born, remember?" said Justin. "The only info in my house about Dumbledore is literally his Chocolate Frog card."

"Yeah, we all have that," said Harold. "Too bad it doesn't say, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Defeater of Grindelwald, and current owner of the such-and-such stone."

"Actually, I don't," said Hermione.

"What?" said all three boys.

"Hello," said Hermione, waving her hand. "Dentists' daughter? I only get Chocolate Frogs if someone is nice enough to give me one. The only cards I have are Morgana, Circe, and Merlin." She shrugged. "Can I see it?"

Harold looked hopefully at Justin and Neville.

"I left mine at home, could you--"

"Be right back," said Neville quickly, stumbling over his feet as he scrambled to get to the exit.

He was back in less than five minutes with the Chocolate Frog card in hand.

"There you go," he said, handing it to Hermione.

"Thanks," she said and then started to mutter out loud as she read over the information on the card.

"... greatest wizard of modern times ... defeat of ... Grindelwald in 1945? Gosh, he's old! ... uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel! It's mine! Guys, it's mine!"

She jumped up and waved the card triumphantly in the air. Several house-elves looked up at the outburst before they ducked their heads back over their chores.

"Um, sure," said Neville, "You can keep it. I've got three of them now."

"No!" shrieked Hermione, grabbing Neville's arm. "The stone! It's my stone. I was researching the Philosopher's Stone, remember? Nicholas Flamel is the only known alchemist who's ever made one, and he's described right here as Dumbledore's partner." She pointed at the last two lines of the card. "This has got to be it! It's the most dangerous stone, too, out of the four we had left on the list."

Justin frowned, helping the poor chess figures that Hermione had knocked over back onto their feet. The black knight was shaking his fist, shouting crude remarks from atop his staggering mare.

"What did yours do again?" Justin asked.

"It's the only known substance in the universe that can transform any metal into solid gold, and it produces the Elixir of Life, which will make anyone who drinks it immortal."

Harold had no doubt that Hermione had quoted the notes from their list word for word. She nodded excitedly as she snapped the Chocolate Frog card on the table and tapped it with her finger.

"Fluffy is guarding the Philosopher's Stone."

"It makes sense," mumbled Harold. "Immortality is totally something worth risking your life for."

"So, now we know," said Justin. "Now what?"

"Now," said Harold. "I don't know."

He had no idea what to do with the knowledge that Dumbledore was using Uncle Severus and a very dangerous three-headed dog to guard the Philosopher's Stone on the third floor of Hogwarts.

 

As January turned into February, the snow turned into slush, and the gray skies opened up on a daily basis to pour more icy water onto the already soaked grounds. If the weather didn't change, the second Quidditch match of the season would be played under miserable conditions. Harold didn't care about the Gryffindor team, but he did feel some solidarity for Hufflepuff, at least for the time being, because two of his closest friends belonged to that House. He also didn't look forward to getting soaked up in the stands without any idea how long the game would last.

Uncle Severus remained elusive for the most part, and there was never enough time before or after Potions class to talk to him and find out how things were going with the Philosopher's Stone. It was beginning to bother Harold a lot.

Salazar wasn't able to tell him much either, because his case was in the corner of the Potions classroom, and he was only able to see Uncle Severus during lessons. However, he did mention that Harold's uncle was getting surlier by the day, snarling at students and taking away House points for the slightest infractions.

On the morning of the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match, the weather was so bad that Madam Hooch insisted the game would have to be postponed until afternoon. Everyone was surprised to hear the news, until gossip made the rounds that someone had seen Hagrid open the door to one of the staircases into the stands and get washed away by a deluge.

In the afternoon, they went down to the pitch as a large group. They drew a few strange looks as five Slytherins, two Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw all marched down the soggy lawn to the Quidditch pitch together, talking amiably.

Almost the whole school had showed up for the game, and Harold used his new magical binoculars to check out the other stands as soon as everyone had sat down.

The Gryffindors had forgone their silly Weasley banner this time, and were taking up a whole section of the stands next to the teachers. Even Professor Dumbledore had showed up for this game. Uncle Severus was sitting a couple rows below the headmaster, right next to Professor Quirrell in his large purple turban. Quirrel looked pale and twitchy. Uncle Severus looked like he might bite someone's head off and spit it at his feet.

A commotion went through the red-and-gold crowd and Harold decided to test the automatic focus function on his binoculars. He pushed the small button and his lenses immediately honed in on a head of platinum blond hair above the flutter of a silver-green scarf.

Malfoy had barreled his way into the middle of the Gryffindor crowd, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

Harold sighed.

"Why does he always have to stir trouble?" he asked.

Blaise, who was sitting on his left, lowered his binoculars to look at Harold.

"Who?"

"Malfoy," said Harold, pointing across the pitch at the Gryffindor stands.

Blaise used his own set of magical binoculars to see what was happening.

"Oh," he said with a wince. "Looks like he got in over his head this time. He just took a blow."

"Yeah," crowed Millie. "I hope he gets the pretty knocked out of him. Maybe then Pansy'll finally shut up."

Harold quickly brought his binoculars back up and focused them just in time to see Malfoy pull himself back to his feet and lunge at a sandy-haired Gryffindor.

"That's not nice," said Hermione.

"Neither is Pansy," said Millie with a shrug.

Then Madam Hooch blew the whistle and everyone forgot all about Malfoy. 

The game was fast paced and intense, Bludgers zooming every which way as Hufflepuff pressed for the hoops and didn't let up for a second. Within five minutes, they were twenty points up and going strong.

"Oh, oh, oh, Snitch!" screamed Daphne a millisecond before Lee Jordan announced it through the speakers, and right as Angelina Johnson from Gryffindor started to dive for it.

Harold pushed the automatic focus button and it zoomed in on the action.

"Come on, Diggory!" yelled Daphne, "Get off your arse!"

Both Seekers whooshed by within inches of Madam Hooch's broomstick on either side of her, chasing after the tiny winged ball.

"Huffepluff scores!" shouted Lee Jordan. "Another ten points as both Seekers are in hot pursuit of the Snitch, Johnson slightly in the lead."

"Come on, Diggory!" Daphne shouted again, this time joined by Neville and Justin, and even Hermione was cheering for the Hufflepuff Seeker.

Lee Jordan was talking twice as fast as normal, trying to describe everything.

"Hufflepuff scores again, and -- Both Seekers out of the dive within inches of the ground and coming back up. The Snitch got aw-- No! Angelina's got the Snitch! Gryffindor got the Snitch! Gryffindor wins! Final score a hundred fifty to forty, the game ends after five minutes and forty-seven seconds. What a game, people. What a game."

Harold slumped back into his seat, disappointed that he had barely gotten to use his binoculars. He wished the Snitch had hidden itself better. He really wished Hufflepuff had won.

"That sucks," said Blaise. "I thought it would last at least a half an hour. How's this going to help me procrastinate on my Charms essay?"

Hermione whipped around with wide eyes.

"You shouldn't procrastinate on that. Professor Flitwick only assigns homework on topics that will come up in the final exams; and they're only fourteen weeks away."

"That's nearly four months," said Blaise, rolling his eyes. "Plus we've still got the Easter Holidays."

"You should listen to her," said Tracey. "I've seen how badly you suck at Charms theory. You need all the time you can get. Remember what Gemma said? It's not enough to whip out your wand and swing it around; you've got to be able to explain what you're doing." 

"Yeah, whatever."

"I can lend you my notes if you'd like?" offered Hermione.

Blaise opened his mouth, but Harold grabbed the collar of his robes, pulled him close, and muttered in a low voice.

"Take 'em if you need 'em. She's the Queen of Notes."

"Sure, Granger." Blaise pulled his collar down and sat back up. "Thank you."

"No problem." Hermione smiled brightly.

The stands started to clear out, and Harold took one last look through his binoculars, pushing the automatic focus button just for fun. The lenses zoomed in on the stands where the teachers had gathered together. Professor Quirrell had jumped up and was waving his hands in front of him as Uncle Severus rose to his feet, bared his teeth with a snarl, and pushed Quirrell in the chest. Harold watched with a frown as his uncle kept herding the other professor along in front of him out of the stands.

 

The mystery deepened when neither Uncle Severus nor Professor Quirrell showed up for dinner after everyone else had come back inside from the game.

Sometime between the potato soup and the treacle tart, Harold decided it was time that he made a real effort to talk to his uncle.

He left the Great Hall ahead of everyone else and marched into the empty Potions classroom. Muttering a quick greeting to Salazar, he crossed the room and tried the door by the blackboard. It was locked, so he knocked twice. When he received no answer, he cast the Unlocking Charm and went right through his uncle's study to the door leading into the private chambers. He knocked twice again.

"Uncle Severus?"

He received no answer and knocked another three times. Harold pointed his wand at the doorknob and squared his shoulders.

"Uncle Severus, I'm coming in. Alohomora!"

Twisting the knob, he stepped inside his uncle's private chambers and took a look around.

The long room was separated into a sitting area in the front and a sleeping area in the back. The sitting area had a fireplace with two large, high-backed chairs in front of it that looked like the ones in the common room. A small round table with a single spiraling leg stood between them. Since the chair on the right was piled high with books, Harold plopped down on the other seat, crossed his arms, and stared at the door into the main dungeon corridor. He could wait. All night if necessary, he thought.

After a while, his eyes strained from staring at the door, but he did not give up his watch.

His eyelids became heavy and the quiet crackle of the fire lulled him in until they closed.

Someone cleared their throat loudly.

Harold jolted awake, eyes rolling wildly to look for the source of the sound. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but his uncle was here now.

Uncle Severus stood in front of him, black robes gathered around his crossed arms, glowering down his nose.

"Breaking into my office?" he asked silkily. "I ought to take fifty points from you for that."

Harold sat up, rubbing his eyes and shook his head, trying to think around the cobwebs in his sleep-addled head.

"You're still my uncle, and it's your fault. We haven't talked in weeks."

"Nonsense, we just spoke yesterday morning."

"Calling on me in class does not count."

Harold glared mulishly at his uncle who was staring back at him with a forbidding scowl. Uncle Severus raised his brows and pursed his lips. Then he sighed.

"So what would you like to talk about?"

There were so many questions in his mind; he didn't know what to ask first. This might be his only opportunity to break into his uncle's private chambers.

"What were you doing with Quirrell at the Quidditch match?"

"That is none of your business," said Uncle Severus sharply, before he continued in a smoother tone. "And I do not appreciate being spied on. Do I need to confiscate those binoculars?"

"No!" Harold instinctively grabbed at his chest, until he remembered that he had put the binoculars safely back in his trunk before dinner.

"Then keep your nose out of it."

It was a clear dismissal, but Harold wasn't ready to give up so easily.

"I know what you're guarding. My friends and I figured it out."

"Impossible." Uncle Severus tilted his head with a condescending smirk. "Don't try to fool me, Harold. There is no--"

"The Philosopher's Stone."

His uncle went very still, smoothing his expression into a blank mask, and his black eyes bored directly into Harold's green ones. When he spoke again, it was in a frighteningly calm tone.

"And just how did you arrive at that conclusion?"

Almost instantly, Harold remembered sitting in the kitchen, joking with Justin, Neville, and Hermione about finding the answer on the back of a Chocolate Frog card.

"We knew it was a stone from what you said when Fluffy bit you. Then we researched the most likely stones and tried to find the connection to Dumbledore." He remembered Hermione jumping up from the table, triumphantly swinging the Albus Dumbledore collector's card in the air. "We found it."

Uncle Severus growled something under his breath that sounded like "Insufferable know-it-all." Then he looked away from Harold and stared at the fireplace.

Harold took the opportunity to ask again.

"Is that why you were arguing with Quirrell? The stone?"

"I told you, it's none of your business. Why must you insist on sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?" Uncle Severus clenched his hands into fists, glaring into the flames. "Breaking the rules, looking for trouble, instigating others; just like your father."

Harold froze. His eyes stung and there was suddenly a cold, hard stone in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He pressed the words out past a closed up throat.

"I can always ask Quirrell."

"You mustn't!"

Uncle Severus had whirled around and swooped down on Harold, grabbing his arms so tightly, he could feel each individual bony finger leave a mark.

"Do you understand? You mustn't go near Quirrell. Stay away from him. He's--" Uncle Severus took a deep breath and calmed down. "Harold, I need you to promise me that you won't under any circumstances go near him. The business between me and Quirrell is just that, between the two of us, and I don't want you to interfere."

Harold shook off his uncle's grip, crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and stared silently into the fireplace. If he was so much like his father, why did his uncle even bother asking? Obviously, he wouldn't listen and just go looking for trouble anyway.

"I'm nothing like him," whispered Harold under his breath. "And if you think I am, then why do you even care?" He burst out of the chair and barreled past his uncle toward the door.

"Colloportus! Sigiloportus!"

The lock clicked and there was the sound of a heavy bolt sliding into place.

Harold turned around slowly and glared at his uncle who stood by the fire with his wand pointed at the door. Uncle Severus lowered his wand and heaved a deep sigh.

"I've never known you to be like this," he said gravely. "What has gotten into you?"

"Me?" Harold shot back. "What's gotten into you? We haven't talked in weeks, you've locked the door to your study, and you never answer when I knock. You weren't even there for Christmas morning!"

His uncle's grip tightened around his wand.

"I told you that Dumbledore required my services over the holidays. His request continues to keep me busy well into this term. If I do not answer your call it is because I'm not in my rooms."

"Then why did you lock the door to your study?"

Uncle Severus twisted his face into a grimace of disgust and anger.

"It's merely a precaution that wouldn't be necessary if Gryffindor students could refrain from trying to sneak into it."

Harold nodded. He should have thought of that as a possible reason. However, he was surprised his uncle had used a Locking Spell that a first year could break. It didn't matter. What mattered at the moment was that he was still angry his uncle was caught up in some business that should have been taken care of months ago.

"Why can't Dumbledore just destroy the stupid stone? Then no one can steal it and you don't have to guard it anymore."

Uncle Severus heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.

"There is no point in mulling over it. The decision is in Dumbledore's hands." 

Harold's shoulders slumped. It sounded like he would never get to talk to his uncle again. From now on it would be all locked doors and unanswered calls.

"Is this ever going to be over?"

Uncle Severus relaxed his stiff shoulders and returned his wand to his sleeve.

"It will end when the culprit is caught. Hopefully, that will be long before the Summer holidays."

Harold's eyes widened. If he understood his uncle correctly, they were not going to leave Hogwarts until this business was over. He might be stuck at school forever. He opened his mouth, but Uncle Severus cut him off with a raised hand and a shake of his head.

"There is no point in mulling on it, and, since it is getting late, I suggest we end our conversation for tonight."

Harold felt like crying again, but he wasn't going to show weakness. He nodded. There was really only one thing left to say. He raised his chin.

"I didn't get the chance to say thank you for my Christmas present. Thank you. I love it."

"You're welcome." Uncle Severus nodded his head.

"Good night." said Harold.

"Good night."

Harold hung his head and slinked toward the unlocked door into the study. His hand was on the doorknob when his uncle stopped him.

"Harold?"

He turned around to look at his uncle, waiting quietly.

"You will want to wash your face before you return to the common room. I suggest you take some Essence of Dragon Claw from my private stores."

Harold frowned, nodded, and walked out of the room. He took a small vial of the potion his uncle had recommended and locked the door by the blackboard behind him.

As Harold passed Salazar on his way out of the classroom he heard him hiss, "Why so blue?"

He ignored his familiar, left the Potions classroom, and went straight to the boys' bathroom down the hall. 

The moment he raised his head and looked into the smudged mirror above the row of sinks, Harold realized why his uncle hadn't bothered with a stronger Locking Spell, why he had recommended taking Essence of Dragon Claw to wash his face, and what his familiar's comment had really meant. From inside the mirror, a bright blue face with vivid green eyes was staring back at him.


	14. Care of Magical Creatures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning, this chapter gets a bit gory and emotionally distraught toward the end.

After the disappointing conversation with Uncle Severus, Harold tried to put the Philosopher's Stone out of his mind. With the end of the year exams looming in the distance and a mountain of additional homework in the meantime, he had enough to do to keep him busy.

Blaise had taken one look at Hermione’s color coordinated notes and decided they should start a study group. They met up in the library every Wednesday and Sunday to go over the most important topics, covering a different class each week. There was a different group leader for each subject: Millie led them in Transfiguration, Hermione in Charms, Harold in Potions, Neville in Herbology, Justin in History of Magic, Blaise in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Tracey in Astronomy. Daphne didn't mind that she had no subject to lead. She joked about getting all the benefits with only half the work effort.

By mid-March, the weather improved enough and Salazar’s food stores were so drastically depleted that Harold, Justin, and Neville resumed their Friday afternoon trips into the forest with Hagrid. Hermione begged off until the weather was warmer and instead spent even more time studying in the library. The Easter holidays went by nearly unnoticed in a blur of extra study sessions and rigorous homework.

During one of their Wednesday afternoon group meetings, they saw Hagrid lumber through the shelves, trying to go unnoticed even though his enormous size and the thick, smelly moleskin coat made that an impossible task.

"That's weird," said Hermione with narrowed eyes when Hagrid disappeared behind a row of shelves.

"What?" asked Blaise, looking up over the stack of purple Astronomy note cards in his hand.

"He's in the Dragons section. I know because that's where I first looked for information on the twelve uses of dragon's blood until I figured out that would be in the Potions section. The Dragons aisle has more practical stuff like what types of dragons there are, and how to care for them. But why would Hagrid need to look that up?"

Blaise furrowed his brows.

"I don't know what's weirder: the gamekeeper looking up dragons, or that you've got the sections of the library memorized."

Hermione shrugged.

"I spend a lot of time here. It helps to know my way around."

Harold ducked his head to hide a grin. Hermione could probably find her way around the library blindfolded and walking backwards if she had to.

A few minutes later, Hagrid came back out from between the stacks. There was a suspicious rectangular lump in the enormous left pocket of his moleskin coat. Hermione's jaw dropped as she leaned forward to hiss in a scandalized whisper.

"He's stealing a book!"

Harold's brows furrowed. If Hagrid was stealing a book about dragons, there was a great chance it wasn't out of academic interest. The gamekeeper didn't keep a single book in his cabin by the forest. However, breeding dragons or keeping them as pets had been outlawed almost three hundred years ago; no one could get away with it. Even Gringotts had to get special permission to keep their dragons down in the vaults.

Then again, there was probably a law against man-eating, three-headed dogs in places full of children, at least in spirit if not in letter, and that hadn't stopped Dumbledore from placing Fluffy on the third floor to protect the Philosopher's Stone.

What if Dumbledore had decided that wasn't good enough? Harold wouldn't put it past him to recruit a second monster. He had no qualms about putting Uncle Severus in danger, and, from the looks of it, Professor Quirrell was now a part of the scheme as well.  

"Harold?"

Neville's timid voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked up with raised brows.

"What?"

"It's just-- Are you okay?" Neville looked half concerned, half scared.

"Of course I am. Why?"

"You just looked a little odd."

Blaise snorted. "What he means is the way you glared at the table just now, it should have combusted. What are you angry about?"

"Nothing," Harold lied. "I was just thinking."

 

 

Friday of the same week, Harold decided to confront Hagrid about the stolen book. When he, Justin, and Neville arrived at the gamekeeper's hut in the afternoon, all the curtains were closed. There was no sound coming from inside, even though Fang should be barking and scratching at the door. Harold frowned as he raised his fist and knocked a few times.

"Who is it?" Hagrid asked nervously from the other side.

"It's us, Harold, Justin, and Neville."

Hagrid opened the door barely wide enough to let them in and immediately closed it behind them. The air inside was so hot from the blazing fire in the grate it stung Harold's face and burned in his nose. Fang was nowhere to be seen, and the dog blanket in front of the fireplace was gone. Harold's suspicions were all but confirmed.

"Where is it?" he asked coldly.

"Wha'?" said Hagrid, stumbling back a step. "I dunno wha' you mean."

"The dragon, where is it?"

"Now, listen 'ere, boy--"

"No!" Harold's anger boiled over. The heat was making him dizzy, and he couldn't understand why Uncle Severus and Hagrid were willing to risk their lives to protect Dumbledore's dangerous trinket instead of destroying it.

"Breeding dragons and keeping them as pets is illegal and dangerous. Why are you doing this? It's Dumbledore, isn't it? He's making you do this, isn't he? You can't let him, Hagrid. Please, don't let that selfish codger make you break the law!"

"Tha's enough!" roared Hagrid before he continued in a gruff rumble. "Dumbledore has nothin' ter do with it. He's a great man, an honorable man, and I'll not have yeh talk about him like that."

"He's forcing my uncle to protect the Philosopher's Stone!"

"What?" Hagrid went pale, his lips quivering. "How do you know about the stone?"

"We figured it out ages ago," Harold said with a wave of his hand, "but it doesn't matter. What matters is you can't put a dragon in the school."

Hagrid shook his head as his enormous shoulders slumped.

"O'course not. The dragon's nothin' ter do with the stone."

Harold stopped and blinked. He had been sure it was part of Dumbledore's great master scheme. There was no other reason he could think of that anyone would want to keep a dragon.

"Then why on earth would you have it?"

"Because I always wan'ed one, and I won it at cards, fair and square."

Harold hung his head and clenched his hands into fists. It was hard to believe Hagrid had willingly gambled for a dragon. He couldn't even imagine the kind of place where such a card game was possible.

"Where is it?" he asked again.

"I'm not tellin' yeh," said Hagrid, stepping squarely in front of the fireplace with his arms crossed.

Harold raised his brows, trying to look past Hagrid. The man was blocking the entire width of the grate with his hulking form. Sweat beaded down his face, matting his wild hair and beard.

Of course, thought Harold, there was no way someone could have carried around a live dragon unnoticed. It had to be an egg. He remembered Hermione reading to them out of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them how dragons would breathe fire on their eggs until they hatched.

"Harold?"

Neville's hand on his arm made him look around. Both Justin and Neville looked confused.

"What's going on?" asked Neville.

Harold crossed his arms with an exasperated sigh and turned to face his friends.

"Hagrid here has somehow managed to win a dragon egg at a card game, and now he wants to hatch it and raise the thing, right here."

Justin looked up at Hagrid with a worried frown.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he said. "Hagrid, isn't there a better place you could send it? Like some sort of magical animal shelter?"

"No such thing," said Hagrid. "He's mine."

"We'll have to tell Dumbledore," said Neville.

"No!" shouted Hagrid and Harold at the same time.

"Why not?" asked Neville with a confused frown.

Hagrid wiped a hand over his face and looked guilty.

"I would'na want to cause Professor Dumbledore any more trouble."

Harold pressed his lips tightly together. He couldn't believe how naive Hagrid was when it came to Dumbledore. If anything, the headmaster would probably think it was a great idea to keep Hagrid's new pet a secret and add it to the collection of men and beasts protecting the stone.

"The dragon has to go," Harold said calmly.

"And who are you to say so?" growled Hagrid with an angry glare.

"It's not about me. How long do you think it'll take for someone to find out you're keeping a dragon in your hut? And how long before it is too big to keep in here? Have you even thought about what you're going to do when it starts to breathe fire?"

"He's right," Justin said with a compassionate frown. "This secret is going to be literally too big to keep."

Neville chewed on his lip, looking from his friends to Hagrid and back again.

"What are we going to do? I mean, we have to help, and we don't want Hagrid to get in trouble, right?"

Harold deflated. The gamekeeper had an unbelievable blind spot when it came to Dumbledore and dangerous animals, but he was also a kind and caring person and the reason Harold could supply Salazar with the best food on a weekly basis.

"Of course we don't," said Harold. "That's why we have to figure out how to get the dragon somewhere safe without getting caught."

"But he's mine."

Hagrid sounded like they were talking about taking away his child. Harold barely managed not to roll his eyes and kept his tone as gentle as he could make it.

"And if you really care," he said, "you'll think of what's best for him first."  

"So what do we do?" Neville asked again.

"I don't know." Harold crossed his arms more tightly and looked up at Hagrid in front of the grate. "How long do we have before the egg hatches?"

Hagrid shrugged and said, "Three weeks, maybe four?"

"We'll think of something."

He sounded a lot more certain than he felt, but he would have to figure something out. If he didn't, he ran the risk that Dumbledore would find out and want to use the dragon to protect the stupid stone.

The first thing they did when they got back from catching frogs in the forest was to find Hermione and make plans to meet in the kitchens after dinner.

As the dishes, pots, and pans zoomed over their heads and house-elves scurried all around them, they shared the news about the dragon to see if Hermione had any idea how to get rid of it.

"I don't know," she said. "It's awfully difficult. Even if we can find a way to sneak the egg out of here, where would we take it? It's illegal to breed dragons, and any official place would want to know where it came from."

Justin's heel tapped the ground in a quick rhythm as his knee bounced in thought.

"What if we play dumb? We could say we found it by the creek while looking for frogs?"

Harold shook his head.

"We can't contact the authorities directly. They'd want to work with Dumbledore, and I'm not taking any chances of him getting his hands on that egg."

When all three of his friends looked at Harold with varying degrees of concern and doubt on their faces, he raised his brows with an annoyed scowl.

"What? He's got a giant three-headed dog guarding his trinket behind a door that any first year can open. What makes you think he won't use a dragon?"

I would, said a quiet voice in the back of Harold's mind.

He could not allow that to happen. Uncle Severus was already in danger from Fluffy, and he was the only family that Harold had.

If only he could think of a way to get rid of that egg without smashing it, but his mind drew a complete blank. Breaking rules and getting away with it was not one of his talents. That was a Gryffindor thing. The terror twins could probably come up with a plan in a heart beat. Harold's eyes widened.

"We need help," he said, "and I think I know who to ask."

"Who?" asked Hermione.

"The terror twins," said Harold.

"Who?" asked Justin.

"Fred and George Weasley."

The idea left doubtful expressions on all of their faces, but in the end they agreed it was the only thing any of them could think to do.

 

 

The next morning during breakfast, an owl delivered a note to the Weasley twins. Harold was already waiting for them in the unused fourth floor classroom behind the suit of armor when they arrived shortly after nine in the morning.

"Oh, it was you," said one of the twins when he spotted Harold.

"Told you it wasn't Holly Parker," said the other twin and held out his hand.

"A bloke can dream." The first one dropped a Galleon onto his brother's outstretched palm. "So, what do you want with us, firstie?"

"It's Harold," said Harold through gritted teeth, before he continued in the silkiest tone he could muster. "And I have need of your special talents."

"Oh, flattery will get you everywhere," said the twin pocketing the money, "for a price of course."

"Why don't we hear him out first?" said the other twin.

Harold cocked his head to the side as he watched the exchange. A pattern was beginning to emerge. They looked the same, but they didn't behave in the same way.

"You're Fred," he said, pointing at the boy with the extra Galleon. "And you're George." He pointed at the boy who wanted to hear him out first. "Right?"

The twins looked at each other and then down at their identical black robes as if to check for an obvious sign.

"Anyway," said Harold, "I'm in a bit of trouble. Well, not me, really. It's someone I know, and since you are the kings of breaking rules and getting away with it, I thought you might be able to help."

"Did you hear that?" said Fred, "We're the kings of breaking rules." He buffed his fingernails on his chest and pretended to inspect them.

"Right," said George. "And what rules are you trying to break with our help?"

"Just a couple of school rules," said Harold evasively, "and maybe one or two regulations on the care of magical creatures?"

George raised a brow and tilted his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Harold, are you trying to sneak past the three-headed dog on the third floor? Because if you are then don't bother."

Harold gaped. "You know about that?"

Fred rolled his eyes. "Of course we know. We checked it out our first week back. Been there, done that."

"And we almost didn't live to tell the tale," said George. "So, please, stay away from that thing. It's not worth it."

"Agreed," said Fred. "The drool and the stink."

"The teeth and the claws," said George.

"It's not about Fluffy," said Harold quickly.

"Fluffy? Really? Who would name a monster like that Fluffy?"

Harold sighed.

"Hagrid would." When the twins shrugged and wobbled their heads in agreement, he continued to explain his request. "And he's now won a dragon egg at a card game, and I'm trying to figure out how to get rid of it before anyone finds out."

"A dragon egg?" said Fred with a glint in his eyes.

"Are you serious?" said George.

"How big is it?" said Fred.

"About this big." Harold curved his hands around the shape of an invisible basketball.

Fred whistled through his teeth as George's face twisted in contemplation. Harold dropped his hands and watched them expectantly for a moment. He cleared his throat when the silence dragged on.

"We figure we have about three weeks before it hatches, so..." He trailed off with a cringe. "Any ideas?"

"Actually," said George with a laugh, "I think we might."

"What is it?" asked Harold.

"Not what, who," said Fred, grinning.

"The thing is," said George. "When you've got as many brothers as we do, there's at least one for just about anything you need. And we've definitely got a brother for this. You, my friend, need Charlie."

"And we can arrange that for you," said Fred. "But on one condition."

Harold gritted his teeth. He should have known this was coming. Not even Gryffindors would go out of their way simply for the sake of adventure. He crossed his arms and looked defiantly at Fred.

"Name it."

"You need to tell us everything you know about this Fluffy business. The suspense is killing me."

Harold gaped and his arms dropped numbly at his sides. Then he quickly pulled himself back together and held out his hand to shake. If that was all it took to get the twins to help, he would gladly share the secret of the Philosopher's Stone.

"Deal."

One week later, Harold received an owl at the breakfast table with a note from the twins asking to meet him in the unused fourth floor classroom. They were already waiting for him when he arrived.

"Good news, my friend, we've arranged a great plan for your caper!" said Fred.

"As long as the egg hasn't hatched yet," said George.

Harold shook his head.

"It's not as of yesterday, but I think it's getting close."

"Great," said Fred, "If you can get the egg up on the tallest tower by midnight tonight, you're a go."

"You'll have to put a Heating Charm on it, too," said George, "but we can teach you how to do that." 

"And we'll provide look-out and distraction for Filch and Mrs. Norris," said Fred, gleefully rubbing his hands. "I can't wait to try out Zonko's new dung bombs."

"Our brother's friends will meet you up on the top of the tower and take the egg off your hand. They'll be in and out like that." George snapped his fingers.

"And Charlie will take care of the little beast once it hatches in Romania where it's perfectly legal."

"That's--" Harold didn't know what to say.

"Amazing?" said Fred.

"Genius?" said George.

"Incredibly easy?" said Fred.

Harold nodded his head along with them. By midnight tonight, the dragon would be gone and he would no longer have to worry about Dumbledore finding out.

"All of the above," he said sincerely. "Thank you so much."

Since Harold already knew a few Heating and Stasis Charms from helping Uncle Severus with potions, the twins spent the next couple of hours teaching him other useful spells. By the time Harold left the unused classroom, he knew how to cast the Bat Bogie Hex, the Reductor Curse, and the Jelly-Legs Jinx.

 

That evening, while everyone was at dinner, Harold pulled his father's Invisibility Cloak from the bottom of his trunk and hid it under his pillow. At eleven o'clock, he disappeared inside the cloak and sneaked out of the dormitory. A few older students were still milling about the common room, but none of them paid any attention to the entrance, and Harold was able to leave unnoticed.

The trek across the lawn seemed to take forever, and Harold was freezing terribly, wearing only his pajamas under the thin cloak. His teeth were chattering by the time he arrived at Hagrid's hut and knocked on the door.

"Hagrid, it's me, let me in."

The door opened and Harold's teeth stopped chattering as a blast of heat enveloped his whole body.

"You've got an Invisibility Cloak?"

"Yeah, had it since Christmas. Anyway, I've got great news."

Harold quickly explained to Hagrid the long and short of the twins' plan. He did not seem too keen on giving up the egg, but he understood that a dragon was better off in the hands of a professional dragon tamer and surrounded by its own kind in the Romanian wilderness.

A couple of spells later, the egg was kept at a nice hot temperature and Hagrid let Harold borrow a pair of dragon hide gloves to carry it under the Invisibility Cloak. It was surprisingly heavy. With Hagrid's help, they managed to cover Harold back up and get him outside.

Thanks to the egg it was nice and warm under the cloak on his way back to the school. He maneuvered carefully up the stairs to the main entrance, and there was a scary moment where he had to balance the egg on one hand to open the big oak front door.

It felt like hours went by as Harold climbed the steps of the main staircase and padded quietly down long corridors to get to the tallest tower. He was on the sixth floor when a loud bang echoed several floors below. The twins must have set off the dung bombs.

Harold grinned and quickened his steps, knowing that Filch would follow the sound of the noise. He crept up the final spiraling staircase into the tallest tower and through a hatch into the cold night air.

A few minutes later, two figures on broomsticks appeared in the distance. Harold took off his Invisibility Cloak before they swooped down onto the roof.

Charlie Weasley's friends were a cheery lot. They showed Harold the large basket they had brought to transport the egg which could be attached to the handle of their broomsticks. Harold gladly handed over his burden, even though he started shivering and his teeth began to chatter as soon as the source of heat was gone.

There was a last exchange of "thank you" and "good bye", and then the broomsticks lifted into the air and one of Harold's problems disappeared into the darkness.

With a sigh of relief, he wrapped the Invisibility Cloak back over his shoulders and started the long quiet trek back down to the dungeons and his dormitory.

The next morning he got up early to send a note to the twins, letting them know that their caper had been a success.

 

 

Things returned to normal, or as normal as they could be, in the last few weeks until the end of year exams. In the third week of May the sky shed its gray cloak and turned a warm shade of periwinkle blue. Even Hermione couldn't resist the bright sunlight, and she decided to rejoin Harold, Neville, and Justin on their weekly trip to the forest with Hagrid. However, she insisted on bringing her note cards instead of Fantastic Beasts so she could quiz them while they were hunting for frogs and newts.

"How many moons around Jupiter, Neville?"

"Um, er, sixty-something?"

"Close. It's sixty-seven."

"Names of the four biggest moons, Justin."

"Io, Europa, Ganymede, Callisto."

"Correct." She flipped to the next card. "Ugh, too easy. Harold, main ingredients for a Forgetfulness Potion."

Harold dove after a frog and caught it in his net before he answered.

"I forgot?"

"Yeah, right." Hermione rolled her eyes at him as he waded over to the glass jar, frog in hand. "Try again."

"Two drops of Lethe River water, two valerian sprigs." He stuffed the frog in the jar and closed it quickly. "Two pinches of medium-fine ground Standard Ingredient and mistletoe berries."

"Correct." Hermione flipped to the next card. "Neville, what are the main characteristics of Devil's Snare and what's the name of its harmless sister plant?"

"Easy," said Neville. "Devil's Snare grows in shadowy, damp areas and wraps its springy vines around other plants, throttling them in the process. The sister plant is the Flitterbloom, which also has long, springy vines, but does not constrict other plants and instead prefers to climb along brick walls in sunny spots."

"Perfect," said Hermione.

Neville smiled and went back to chasing after newts.

"Justin," said Hermione. Then she paused with an uncomfortable expression. "Actually, I'll be right back."

She stood up quickly from her rock and started to walk into the woods. Harold's brows furrowed.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Not far," she looked over her shoulder with a grimace. "I just have to... I'll be right back."

She disappeared between the trees.

Less than a minute later, a high-pitched scream echoed through the forest.

"Hermione?"

"HELP! PLEASE HELP!"

Harold, Justin, and Neville tore off in the direction of Hermione's screams. They dashed through a few rows of trees before they stumbled upon her.

Hermione was kneeling in the dirt, tears drenching her bright red face. Her black robes were smeared with a gleaming silver liquid that trickled in rivulets across the ground. She was hunched over a bright white unicorn resting prone against a tree with her hands pressed to its flank.

"Help," she whimpered. "Please, help. I think it's dying."

As Harold realized what the silver liquid was, a shudder went through him. He looked at Justin and Neville, who had equally horror stricken expressions on their faces.

"What kind of monster would do that?" asked Neville as he stepped closer. The unicorn reared its head and made a growling noise, sending him stumbling backwards over his own feet.

"I don't know," said Harold as Justin sent up sparks with his wand to call for Hagrid.

"The-- There was a..." Hermione stifled a sob and sniffled. "Something. I don't know. A shadow? It disappeared when I got close. Where's Hagrid? HAGRID!"

"Calm down, Mione." Hagrid's booming voice came through the trees, trailed by the loud bark of his boarhound, Fang. "What're yeh-- Oh."

The gamekeeper's face fell as his gaze landed on the wounded unicorn. He clicked his tongue and shook his head. Fang whimpered plaintively and crouched low on the ground, nose buried between his front paws.

"Poor fella," Hagrid said. "Summat hurt you badly."

The unicorn barely lifted its head as Hagrid stepped closer, set down his crossbow on the ground, and continued in a quiet, soothing tone. "It's a'right, Mione. I got 'im now. Why don't yeh lot go back to the creek, yeah?"

"But he's hurt!" cried Hermione, wiping her face on her shoulder without taking her hands off the wound. "He needs help. We've got to do something! Please, what can we do? There's got to be a spell or a potion or something."

"Dittany!" said Harold fiercely. "I know where Uncle Severus keeps it, I can run and--"

"No," said Hagrid, and his tone was final. "It's too late. Go on, go back to the creek. I'll take care o' this. No need fer yeh to see that. Go on, Mione. Let go."

Hermione shook her head fiercely, pressing more firmly against the wound. Her hands were drenched in silver and the rivulets kept flowing through her fingers.

"Please," she whimpered. "You can't... I can't." She sobbed and sniffled.

Harold cleared his throat and looked away, feeling tears prick at his eyes.

"Come on, Hermione," he said, holding out his hand. "Come on, let's go back to the creek. Please?"

Hermione's fingers clenched against the animal's flank, her chin trembling as she stared up at him with a stubborn glare.

Justin made a choked noise in his throat and his voice croaked when he started to speak.

"It's only going to suffer longer if you don't let it go."

He was staring up into the trees, his mud-caked hands fisted inside the back pockets of his slacks. Neville was standing next to him with wet cheeks, glassy eyes turned on Hermione as he held out a hand to her as well.

"Please, let's go, yeah?"

Hermione yelped in anguish, wrenched herself away from the unicorn, and ran right past their outstretched hands.

"Go on," said Hagrid as he took her place in front of the animal. "Go."

Harold and Neville nodded their heads. Justin was still staring up into the trees. Neville grabbed his arm and pulled him away. They followed Hermione's tracks and didn't look back. When they reached the creek, she was kneeling in the icy water, her arms submerged up to her elbows, scrubbing fiercely at the stains on her skin and robes as silver rivulets washed away with the stream.


	15. Through the Trapdoor

It took all three of them to convince Hermione to stop scrubbing herself and come out of the creek. When Hagrid emerged between the trees, his hands smudged with silver, she started sobbing again. Harold and Neville held her between them during the silent journey along the path back to Hagrid's cabin. Fang stayed close with his tail tucked between his legs.

Hagrid ushered them all inside and told them to have a seat on the huge bed before he turned away to make tea. Fang plopped down in front of Hermione and rested his head in her lap, whining quietly. She didn't look down but started to run her fingers gently along the dog's long, floppy ears.

"I'm so sorry yeh had ter see that," said Hagrid as he placed four steaming mugs in front of them on the table.

Hermione didn't say anything. Her eyes were glassy and she kept tugging at Fang's ears, who remained still with the exception of an occasional quiet snuffle. Harold gnashed his teeth and crossed his arms tightly in front of him.

"What could have done this? I thought the biggest predators in the forest were werewolves, but it's the middle of the day now, so it can't be them."

"I dunno wha' did tha'," said Hagrid, "but it's nothin' what belongs in the forest. Don' worry, though. It won't get away with tha' again. I'll find it, and I'll stop it. Tha's me job." He ended with a determined grunt and walked away to tend to his enormous backpack.

Justin grabbed his mug and blew away the steam.

"It makes no sense," he said, frowning. "In Fantastic Beasts it said they have no natural enemies because they're too fast and too strong. You'd almost have to use magic to hurt them, and really dark stuff, too."

Neville cocked his head to the side with a nod.

"Yeah, I remember that. I thought it was weird because you can buy unicorn hair and horns in every apothecary."

Hermione's voice was so quiet, Harold couldn't understand a word even though he sat right next to her. 

"What was that?"

"They shed." She sniffed, wiping her nose on her wet sleeve. "Once a year, after mating season, they shed their horns. And if they like you, they'll let you brush their tails. That's how you get the hair." She shook her head, pressing her lips together. "I can tell you what they eat, how they sleep, and that their babies are born gold and don't turn white until they're adults. All this useless stuff and I had no idea how to help. If I'd spent less time memorizing the stupid moons of Jupiter and read ahead, if I'd fought my dad and picked up a few extra books on Care of Magical Creatures, maybe I'd--"

"Yeh stop tha' nonsense right there, yeh hear me?" said Hagrid gruffly, placing a plate of rock cakes on the table. "I've bin caring fer them longer then yeh've bin alive and there was no savin' the poor fella." He sighed. "Whatever did this went straight fer the heart."

Hermione burst into tears again.

"But why?" she exclaimed. "Why would anyone want to kill a unicorn?"

Harold went very quiet. His mind conjured up an image of a tiny vial inside a locked glass case, sitting on the highest shelf in the apothecary on Diagon Alley.

"Their blood," he said quietly.

Everyone looked at him. He quickly picked up a rock cake with trembling fingers, tearing the treat into small bits. 

"It's a powerful potions ingredient," he explained. "Almost as powerful as tears from a phoenix, but it doesn't work the same. It's dark magic, really dark magic, because it's not something that can be willingly given. You have to hurt the animal to get it. It won't heal you, but it can keep you alive, even if you're an inch from death."

Neville grimaced in disgust.

"But why would someone want to do that?"

Harold's eyes narrowed in thought. As if it wasn't bad enough that the Philosopher's Stone was giving him a constant headache, now someone was out on the grounds killing innocent unicorns to stay alive. His eyes widened.

What were the chances of it being two different people? Wasn't it a lot more likely that the same person who was trying to steal the stone had also attacked the unicorn? But who would be so desperate to keep themselves alive and become immortal?

Harold couldn't think of anyone, but it didn't matter. Only the most terrible dark wizard would go to such horrible lengths. Dumbledore was taking an awful gamble, keeping the Philosopher's Stone intact and at the school. This had gone on for way too long.

"Hagrid," he said calmly. "Are you sure the stone is well protected?"

"O' course it is!" said Hagrid instantly. "Even if it was just Fluffy, no one could get past him."

"Are you sure?" Harold looked at the gamekeeper with furrowed brows. He wished he was as good as Uncle Severus at getting someone to confess with a single scowl.

"O' course I'm sure. What's this got ter do with anything, now?"

"Because I think that whoever attacked the unicorn is the same person who tried to steal the stone."

"Person? How d'yeh figure it's a person?"

"You said you've been gamekeeper for longer than we've been alive and that whatever killed the unicorn did not belong in the forest. Do you know of any animal that would do something like this?"

Hagrid scratched his bushy beard in thought, his thick brows beetled over his glittering black eyes.

"Can't think of one," he muttered. "But that doesn't mean--"

"Did you tell anyone else how to get past Fluffy?"

"Wha? No one! I mean, just yer uncle, and Dumbledore knows of course, but tha's... Oh."

Hagrid's lip began to tremble and his face became very pale.

"What? Who?"

"The fella wi' the egg," Hagrid said with a look of dismay. "I didn' even think. He asked me if I knew how ter care for magical creatures, and I told him all about Fluffy." He clapped his huge hands over his face and shook his head. "Oh, I'm a right ol' git."

Harold sat up straighter, dropping the rock cake crumbs on the table. 

"What did you tell him, Hagrid?"

"Everything!" Hagrid howled through his hands. "How music will send 'im right to sleep, and how it'll only last fer as long as yeh keep going. Oh, I'm such an idiot."

Harold bit his lip and wiped his hands on his thighs.

"But there are other protections, right?" he said carefully. "It's not just Fluffy, is it?"

Hagrid moved his hands away from his face and revealed a hopeful expression.

"Tha's right, there's also Professor McGonagall's, and Professor Flitwick and Sprout helped, too, and of course yer uncle, an' I think even Professor Quirrell." Hagrid nodded quickly and took a deep breath. "It'll be fine. It'll all be fine."

Harold's head spun as he heard of all the protections on the stone. Dumbledore had pulled five of the seven first year teachers into his web without batting a lash. No wonder it was nearly impossible to get a hold of them outside of meal times. He gritted his teeth.

"Right," he said as a very vague plan began to take shape in his mind. "It'll all be fine."

He would make sure it would be because he would get rid of the stupid Philosopher's Stone once and for all.

 

 

After dinner, they met in the kitchens. Hermione looked calmer and more like herself again in a fresh set of robes and with her hair pulled back in a big, bushy pony tail. As soon as they had sat down by the fireplace, Harold broke the news.

"I'm going to destroy the Philosopher's Stone tonight."

"What?"

"How?"

Justin and Neville spoke first, but Hermione was the one who raised her voice.

"That's just crazy," she said. "You heard what Hagrid said. Except for Binns and Sinistra, all of our teachers put some sort of protection around the stone. You'll never get past all of them. And there's only one week left before finals. What if something happens to you and you miss the tests? You won't be able to move on to second year."

"I have to do it," said Harold. "Look what happened today. Do you really want whoever did that to the unicorn to get their hands on the Philosopher's Stone?"

"No, of course not, but--"

"And Dumbledore's not going to do anything about it. If he wanted to destroy the stone, he would have done it a long time ago."

Justin furrowed his brows as his knee started to bounce.

"It's true," he said. "Honestly, he should have never brought it here in the first place. The teachers aren't security guards, and the school isn't any safer than Gringotts. If anything, it's less protected because any wizard can pretty much come and go as they please. The gates are open, the front door is almost never locked. It's stupid dangerous, really." He shook his head.

"Great," said Harold. "So you're going to help?"

"No." Neville said firmly with a grim look on his face.

"What?"

"No," he said again. "We should go tell a teacher. This isn't one of my gran's Lockhart adventure novels. There's a dangerous person out there, trying to get the stone, and he knows how to get past Fluffy. We should tell a teacher and let the adults handle it."

"Neville," said Harold. "I'm telling you, Dumbledore's not going to do anything."

"Then tell McGonagall," Neville insisted, "or Flitwick, or even your uncle. If you don't, I will." His chin wobbled, but he looked determined.

Harold sighed.

"I already tried talking to my uncle, it didn't do any good."

Neville crossed his arms, staring defiantly back at him.

"Fine," said Harold. "We'll go tell McGonagall. Maybe she can convince Dumbledore."

"Good," said Neville, uncrossing his arms as his shoulders sagged with relief. "Thanks."

"Come on," said Harold. "Let's go now. We only have a couple hours before curfew."

Finding Professor McGonagall was more difficult than they had thought. She wasn't in the staff room and not in the Transfiguration classroom either. Luckily, they ran into Professor Quirrell on their way up the staircase to Gryffindor Tower, who told them where McGonagall's private study was located. They ended up in front of the first floor door with only five minutes until curfew.

Harold knocked.

"Professor? Are you there?"

The door opened and a rather surprised looking Professor McGonagall appeared in the gap.

"Mr. Prince?" She looked over his head at Hermione, Justin, and Neville behind him. "What are you all doing here? It's five minutes to curfew. You should be in your common rooms."

"We need to talk to you," said Harold. "It's about the Philosopher's Stone. May we come in?"

Professor McGonagall's jaw dropped. She looked around the empty hallway and quickly ushered all four of them into her study.

"How on earth do you know about the Philosopher's Stone?"

Harold waved his hand.

"It doesn't matter. Someone is trying to steal it, and they've killed a unicorn today, and they know how to get past Fluffy."

"What are you talking about?"

Hermione stepped forward, wringing her hands in front of her.

"We were in the forest today." Seeing McGonagall's pinched look, she quickly added. "Hagrid was there, watching us. I had to, um, you know, and I went into the bushes and there was a unicorn, and a shadowy figure was bent over it, and I screamed, and it sort of whooshed away into the trees. But the unicorn, it ..." She swallowed and looked down.

Justin placed a hand on her shoulder and finished for her.

"It died. There was blood everywhere. We think the shadow figure attacked the unicorn to drink the blood."

Professor McGonagall's eyes widened in horror. Harold jumped on the chance to make his plea.

"That's why we have to destroy the stone before that shadow monster can get its hands on it."

"Destroy?" McGonagall screeched.

"Maybe not destroy," said Neville quickly, "But we thought you could talk to Professor Dumbledore. Perhaps, he could at least move the stone somewhere else, somewhere more safe and less... here?" He finished in a mumble, staring at his feet.

Professor McGonagall's face became even more pinched and her eyes narrowed as she pushed her square spectacles higher on her thin nose.

"I assure you, Mr. Longbottom, there is no place in all of Scotland as safe as Hogwarts Castle. I will inform Headmaster Dumbledore about what you saw, and of course I will let him know that the culprit is aware of how to circumvent one of the many protective measures around the stone. I am sure the headmaster will make any necessary adjustments. In the meantime, I insist you go back to your common rooms now and stay out of the forest until further notice." She held up a hand when Harold opened his mouth to protest. "Regardless of whether the gamekeeper is willing to supervise you or not. If there is a dangerous creature in the forest, willing to commit such foul acts, I should think it's not safe for you to return until said creature has been apprehended."

"But the stone!" cried Harold.

"Will remain safe and protected in its present location until Headmaster Dumbledore decides otherwise." Professor McGonagall remained unmoved by their noises of protest and ushered them out the door. "Now, off to bed with you. It's past curfew already."

They all shuffled back to the entrance hall with their heads hung low. Harold glared at the flagged stone floor, determined to carry out his earlier plan.

At the foot of the main staircase, they lingered for a moment. Hermione started to climb the marble stairs first, and then Harold, Neville, and Justin descended the stone steps leading down into the dungeons.

"Wait!"

Hermione's call stopped them in their tracks. Her shoes made soft clicking noises on the stone as she hurried to catch up with them.

"Kitchens," she whispered as she overtook them and ran ahead.

"What are you doing down here?"

Harold's heart stopped as he heard the Slytherin prefect scold Hermione. He grabbed on to the banister and took a flying leap.

"It's past curfew! Five points from--"

"Gemma, no!" he shouted as his feet hit the ground with a loud slap. "Please don't," he begged, still panting.

"Prince?" She glared down her pretty nose and jerked her chin at Hermione, Justin, and Neville. "Explain yourself."

"She's a friend," Harold said, "They're all my friends."

"Uh-huh, and they're all out after curfew, including you."

"Yeah, but it's just because we had to talk to a Professor and..." Harold bit his lip, looking behind him at his friends. His eyes strayed down the kitchen corridor. He turned back to Gemma with a smile on his face.

"Promise, I'll make it worth your while if you don't tell."

"Oh, really?" she asked with raised brows, crossing her arms. "And how are you going to do that?"

"I can get you anything you want from the kitchen, right now."

"Anything?" she asked skeptically.  
Harold nodded firmly.

"Then I want Christmas Pudding. With a Galleon in it. If you can get me that in say twenty minutes, I won't say a word."

Harold swallowed. He had no idea if he could make good on this, but he had to try.

"You got it."

"Good." Gemma smiled. "I'll wait for you in the common room. But if you're not there with the pudding in twenty minutes--"

"I'll be there. Promise."

They ran off toward the kitchens before Gemma could ask for anything else. The moment they stepped through the still life with the fruit bowl, Neville called out toward the house-elves at the back of the room.

"Puddy!" he asked hesitantly. "Puddy, are you there? We need you." 

"Why are we even here?" asked Justin, turning to look at Hermione. "You could have just gone up to your common room and we'd all have been fine."

"No," said Hermione, "I couldn't because he--"

Pop!

Puddy appeared out of thin air, standing on the table between them.

"Mister Nevi is calling Puddy, sir?"

"Yes," said Neville with a sigh. "Please, Puddy. Can you make us a Christmas Pudding in twenty minutes?"

"Yes, of course, Mister Nevi. Puddy can--"

Harold interrupted. "And put a Galleon in it?"

Puddy's bat-like ears drooped and his lip wobbled.

"Puddy is sorry. Puddy doesn't have a Galleon. House-elves have no use for money, sir."

"I've got one," said Justin, stepping forward with a gold coin in hand. "Go ahead. Use this one."

"Thank you, sir!" cried Puddy, accepting the coin. "Puddy will make the best Christmas Pudding, sir." Then he disappeared with another pop.

"So, why are we here?" asked Justin again.

Hermione chewed on her lip and looked at Harold.

"Because he still wants to destroy the stone, and he's going to try tonight."

Harold's jaw dropped. "How--"

"You had that look on your face," she said with a sigh. "The same one you had back in Hagrid's hut, and earlier when you said you were going to destroy it."

"Well, if I won't, who will? You heard McGonagall. She's going to leave it all up to Dumbledore. Fat lot of good that'll do when the old codger won't let go of his trinket. Meanwhile, unicorns are getting killed and some dangerous freak is one step closer to immortality."

Hermione swallowed and looked down at her shoes.

"I wasn't going to argue with you," she said. "I was going to offer my help."

Justin cleared his throat.

"I'll come, too." He looked at Neville with a sad expression. "I'm sorry, Neville, but I really think it's safer if that stone is destroyed. It's just ... I don't think any good can come of a thing like that. Don't you agree?"

Neville stood quietly for a while with his hands in his pockets. When he looked up, his jaw was set and there was a stubborn look in his pale eyes.

"I think it's wrong," he said. "I think we shouldn't be sneaking around, or breaking rules, or putting ourselves in danger, or going behind our teachers' backs, or any of it." He sighed. "But it's even more wrong for this thing to be here at school, or to even exist in the first place. And if the adults aren't going to do the right thing, then we're just going to have to do it ourselves."

"So, you're in?" asked Justin.

"Yes," said Neville. "I'm in."

"But do we have to do it a week before the finals?" asked Hermione.

Harold nodded. "No sense in putting it off. We'll do it tonight. I'll get the Invisibility Cloak when I bring Gemma her Christmas Pudding. You guys can wait here."

 

 

The look on Gemma's face when Harold dropped the warm Christmas Pudding onto her outstretched palms was priceless. He left her quickly, before she could ask any questions, and headed straight for his dormitory.

Malfoy was sitting on his bed near the entrance, entertaining Crabbe and Goyle with one of his wild stories. Harold paid him no attention, instead making a beeline for the trunk at the foot of his own bed. Unfortunately, Malfoy seemed to have a different idea.

"Prince? Where've you been? Curfew was half an hour ago. Aren't you worried you're going to cost Slytherin House precious points?" 

Harold rolled his eyes.

"Unlike you, I know how to avoid getting caught." He pulled the Invisibility Cloak from the bottom of his trunk, stuffed it under his robes, and headed back to the door.

"And where do you think you're going now?" asked Malfoy.

"Bathroom," Harold responded shortly. "Don't wait up on my account."

He closed the door firmly, took a quick glance around the long hallway between the dormitories, and disappeared under the Cloak. When he heard the door creak open behind him a few seconds later, followed by hushed whispers, Harold couldn't help but smirk. Let Malfoy try and figure out where he'd gone, the git would never be able to find him. 

He left the common room with Gemma when she headed out for her final rounds and ducked past her in the direction of the kitchen corridor. When he reached the main staircase, he was tempted to go on alone, but he reminded himself that four smart brains could accomplish more than one, and he might need help with whatever traps and protections the teachers had set up.

Justin, Neville, and Hermione were waiting in the kitchen with cups of cocoa in their hands when he arrived.

"Sorry it took so long," he said, pulling down the hood. "Malfoy held me up."

Hermione made a face and mumbled something rather rude into her cup. Harold smiled in agreement.

"Okay, are you guys ready? I'm not sure we're all going to fit under it," he said, spreading the cloak wide with his arms, "but I figure we can at least try."

"It looks amazing," said Neville as he came close and lifted the shimmering fabric away from Harold's dark robes. "And it's really big."

They somehow managed to fit all four of them under the folds of the Cloak, standing two by two.

"We have to be really quiet," said Harold. "It only makes us invisible. People can still hear everything, and if anyone bumps into us, we're toast."

Trying to breathe as quietly as possible while at the same time walking in step with three other people was harder than any of them could ever have thought. Hermione's fingers were clammy in Harold's grip and Neville's hand was gripping his shoulder too tightly, making him cringe with pain.

Every other step there was a sound or a movement that made them jump, only to find out it was someone flushing a toilet or a torch crackling and spitting its tar. They had just started to climb the staircase to the third floor when a nasty hiss made them freeze in the middle. The stairs moved, jerking them violently from side to side, and when they came to a stop, Hermione and Harold were looking directly into Mrs. Norris's lamp-like eyes. They held their breath and did not dare to move. Mrs. Norris stared right at them and sniffed suspiciously at the air. She stretched her long skinny neck forward and raised one paw to take a step.

The stairs moved again, sending them back to their original position, and they moved quickly up the remaining steps. Neville stumbled over the vanishing one, but Justin caught him, and they were standing in front of Fluffy's door.

"Ready?" Harold asked with his hand on the doorknob.

Everyone nodded but then Hermione said, "Wait!"

"What?" asked Harold.

"We need a song," she whispered urgently.

"Oh, right." Harold's mind drew a complete blank. He had no idea what kind of song would put Fluffy to sleep quickest, and there weren't many songs he knew well enough to keep singing to begin with.

"Row your boat," said Justin. "We can do the whole round thing where we start at different times. That way there's no pause."  

"Brilliant." Harold smiled at his friends under the dim light of the Cloak. He was very glad he had decided against going alone. "You go first, then Neville, Hermione, then me."

Everyone nodded and Harold turned to the door again.

"Alohomora."

From the moment the door creaked open, they could hear low growling on the other side. Justin squeaked into song, gripping Neville's arm more tightly.

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream."

Fluffy was on his feet, noses sniffing suspiciously as all three heads turned toward them.

Neville almost forgot to sing, but he stammered out the first words before Justin was through with the final line. Hermione's hand twitched as she began to sing as well and Harold joined in last.

All of them kept their eyes on the three heads as they shuffled closer to the trapdoor in the floor. Fluffy's growling slowly turned into quiet grumbling and then whining noises. Harold glanced from the enormous dog to the trapdoor and back again.

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a dream."

Fluffy's eyes rolled back and closed, one head at a time, before he flopped on the ground, fast asleep. They kept singing as Harold took off the Invisibility Cloak, stepped carefully around the sprawled limbs, bent down, and pulled on the ring to lift the trapdoor.

"Row, row, row your boat." He waved his arm and motioned for Justin to jump down first. "Gently down the stream."

Justin disappeared inside the hole, followed by Neville, and then Hermione.

Harold was still singing the last notes of the song as he, too, dropped into the hole. Cold, damp air whistled past his ears.

"Oomph!"

"Sorry!"

"Geroff!"

"Sorry." He scrambled off whomever he had landed on, hands groping for purchase on the soft, springy surface underneath him.

"Ouch!" Hermione yelped.

"So sorry!" Harold jumped back.

"Stop grabbing my leg."

"I'm not grabbing your leg."

"Then who is?"

"Not me," said Justin.

"Not me," said Neville.

"What?"

"Lumos!"

A soft blue glow spread from the tip of Harold's wand and he could finally see his friends and their surroundings. Long, thick vines were grabbing Hermione's left leg, twined around up to her knee. Neville and Justin were already wrapped up to their hips.

"Oh no!" cried Neville. "Devil's Snare. Quick, we need light and heat!"

"Lumos Maxima!" The light from Harold's wand grew brighter. He had managed to escape the plant before it could get a hold of him. Neville fumbled inside his robes and barely got his wand out before another vine circled his wrist.

"Sorry," he muttered, pointing his wand at the vines. "Callesco!"

The vines retreated, allowing him to get out of the dangerous nest growing along the damp stone wall.

"Callesco!" Heat blasted from Justin's wand, making the springy tentacles around his chest shrink back and release him.

Hermione muttered a different spell under her breath and flicked her wand. Bright blue flames shot out. The vines writhed away from the bluebell fire and shriveled back into the darkness. She scrambled to her feet as fast as she could and pulled Justin up by his hand.

"Sheesh," said Justin as they all stood staring at the dangerous plant, wands raised to defend themselves. Harold nodded in agreement.

"Remind me never to mess with Professor Sprout."

There was only one way forward, so they set off down the long, sloping stone corridor. Harold kept his wand lit.

"Do you hear that?" asked Hermione.

Somewhere up ahead they could hear soft rustling and tinkling. At the end of the corridor, they stepped inside a brilliantly lit chamber. The ceiling was so far above they could barely glimpse it, and the source of the sounds became obvious. Millions of jewel colored birds were fluttering and tumbling through the air, their gossamer wings beating quickly, making them appear like a shimmering cloud.  

One the opposite side of the chamber was a heavy wooden door with a large silver handle. It was firmly locked. Not even the Unlocking Spell was able to open it.

"What now?"

Harold looked from the door up at the shimmering cloud.

"I don't know. Maybe there's something about the birds... " He stared harder at the fluttering swarm, trying to make out the individual creatures with their brightly colored wings and their oddly shaped bobbing bodies. As he looked closer, they almost looked like...

"Keys!" he yelled, pointing up at the cloud of rainbow wings. "They're not birds, they're keys."

Neville craned his neck as he stepped forward.

"But how do we get them down?"

Hermione chewed her lip. Then a smile lit up her face and she pulled her wand from her robes.

"If they can't beat their wings, they can't fly. Petrificus Totalus!"

A smattering of keys rained down from the ceiling and bounced off of Neville as he covered his head and hunched his shoulders. Hermione went bright red.

"Oh, Neville. I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

"It's okay," said Neville, bending down to pick up the handful of petrified keys on the ground. Their wings were so stiff, they snapped right off when Neville touched them.

"Try them," said Harold as he traded places with Neville at the door. "We'll get the other ones down."

They made quick work of the cloud and found the right key after a handful of false tries. Only after they'd opened the door did they notice there had been two broomsticks resting against the wall all along.

The next chamber was so dark, as soon as the door closed behind them, it was impossible to see anything. Harold pulled out his wand to cast Lumos, but the room lit up on its own before he could utter the spell.

When he pulled his arm away from his face and squinted into the sudden brightness, his eyebrows jumped up at the sight.

In front of them was an enormous chessboard with figures twice as tall as them. The black chessmen were turned toward the white pieces on the opposite end of the board. They looked almost the same as Justin's set with one exception: these figures had no faces.

Harold cringed. Hermione and Neville shivered. Justin looked determined.

"I bet you're glad I came with," he said with a wobbly grin.

"You think we have to play to get across?" asked Harold.

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" said Justin, pointing at a second door beyond the two lines of white chessmen.

"Okay, but how?"

Justin walked to the closest chess piece and gently touched the back of it. The black stone sprang to life, and the queen turned her faceless head to look at him.

"Excuse me, your highness," he said nervously, "Are we supposed to trade places with you to get across?"

The queen lowered her head in a regal nod before she turned back to face the white pieces across the board.

"All right," said Justin. "All right, let's see." He looked at the pieces for a moment, and then back at Harold, Hermione, and Neville.

"Neville, you be the king. That's safest. Hermione, you be the king's rook, in case I need to sacrifice the queen, and, Harold, you take the queen's bishop. I'll be the king's knight."

As soon as Justin had made his decision, the corresponding black pieces stepped off the board to make room for them. Harold, Neville, Justin, and Hermione took their places and watched as a white pawn moved forward two squares.

Justin took a deep breath and countered the move with a black pawn. As Harold watched his friend give orders from the back of a stone horse, his stomach twisted in knots. Wizard chess figures weren't gentle with each other. In fact, they could be quite violent when they took an opposing piece off the board.

"Queen's knight to D 5."

"No!" shrieked Hermione as the knight moved into position.

The white queen moved forward and smashed the knight off his horse. He tumbled to the ground and landed on his face. The queen picked up the steed's bridle and grabbed the knight's ankle with her other hand, dragging him along as she led his horse off the board.

Watching from atop his own horse, Justin gulped.

"It's okay, Hermione," he said with a shaking voice. "Now you can go take that bishop. Go on."

Hermione moved to take the bishop, ashen faced. She barely touched the white piece and shooed him off the board with a trembling hand.

Every time the white chessmen took one of their pieces, she jumped and turned around to look at each of them, as if to make sure Harold, Justin, and Neville were unharmed.

More and more black pieces ended up against the wall. Justin did his best to take just as many white pieces in return, putting himself in danger to protect Hermione and Harold as he directed them from place to place. Neville still hadn't moved.

"All right," he said loudly, "This is it. We're almost there. I'm going to let the queen take me now, and you--"

"What? NO!" Hermione, Neville, and Harold all yelled at the same time.

"Don't move!" Justin shouted.

Neville froze. He had almost stepped off his square. His face was ghostly white.

"You can't," he said.

"I have to," said Justin. "It's the only way. I move there, the queen takes me, and Harold can put the king in checkmate. Don't you see?"

"But--"

"I'll be fine."

Harold wasn't so sure. Not after watching the other knight go down earlier.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Justin gripped the reins tightly and nodded once.

"Don't worry about me. Go and destroy that bloody stone, will you?"

He urged his steed forward and to the side. The queen turned her faceless head in his direction, glided across the squares between them, and struck. Hermione screamed. Neville covered his face. Harold stared unblinking as Justin tumbled off his horse, crashed onto the stone tiles, and landed with a dull thud as his head bounced off his arms. The queen dragged him off by his ankle. His eyes were closed.  

Once the queen returned to her place on the board, Harold clenched his fists and moved forward across three black squares to the left. He stared at the white king with a fierce scowl and held out his hand.

The king swiped the crown off his head and threw it at Harold's feet. The remaining white pieces stepped aside and bowed in defeat. Harold and Hermione ran for the door. Neville ran to Justin.

"Neville, what--"

"Go on," he said, pulling a groaning Justin onto his lap. "When he comes around, I'll use one of the broomsticks back in the key chamber and get him to the hospital wing."

"Be careful," said Hermione.

"You too," said Neville.

"Come on," said Harold and pulled Hermione through the door.

On the other side was another long hallway and at the end of it another door.

As soon as they had cracked it open, the smell of sweaty gym socks, rotten eggs, and public restrooms punched them in the nose and made tears spring into their eyes. Their faces fell as they recognized the stench.

"Troll," whispered Hermione.

Then they heard the unmistakable thud of heavy footsteps and the gravelly rasp of a giant club dragging across the ground. With only two of them, they had no chance of defeating the troll in a fight. Their only hope was to sneak past the monster undetected.

Harold pulled out his Invisibility Cloak and wrapped it around them.

"Don't scream," he whispered.

"You either," Hermione whispered back and grabbed his hand.

Harold held on tightly and slowly led them into the room. They crept along the wall, staring at the giant back of the ugly creature.

When the troll turned his head in their direction, Hermione jumped. Harold could feel her nails dig into the back of his hand, but she didn't make a sound. The troll sniffed at the air, sucking an enormous slimy booger up into its pig-like nose. Harold gagged and he could feel Hermione shudder next to him. It seemed to take forever, but the troll finally turned back around and shuffled over to a corner where he banged his club against a big boulder, making small pieces of rock fly off in every direction. 

Very slowly, and as quietly as they could, Harold and Hermione opened the door on the opposite side of the chamber and made their escape. Just as slowly, they pushed the door closed again until it caught in the lock with a barely audible snick.  

They turned and looked around in silence, well aware that there was still a dangerous mountain troll on the other side of the wooden door they were leaning against.

The room ahead of them was relatively small. A single table was placed right in the center. Seven differently shaped bottles stood lined up on top of it, and a scroll of parchment lay in front of the bottles. On the other end of the room gaped the dark hole of an open doorway.

Harold took a step forward. As soon as Hermione followed him, purple flames engulfed the door behind them, and a second fire with black flames shot up inside the doorway ahead. They were trapped, but at least they were safe from the troll.

Harold removed the Invisibility Cloak.

"This is insane," he muttered, shoving the Cloak back under his robes.

Hermione looked nervously over her shoulder.

"I hope Neville and Justin got out all right. What if the troll goes into the chess chamber and they're still there?"  

"I'm sure the white queen will be happy to clobber him." Harold shook his head. "They're safe. I bet Neville's already halfway to the hospital wing by now."

He hoped he was right. He hoped even more that Neville had remembered to sing before he flew up through the trapdoor into Fluffy's corridor.

Hermione didn't look convinced, but she nodded and stepped closer to the table.

"This has got to be the last one," she said, looking at the bottles as she picked up the scroll. "I think it's your uncle's. Maybe we have to mix potions to douse the flames?"

"What's it say?" Harold stepped closer to read over her shoulder as she opened the scroll.

 

            Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

            Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,

            One among us seven will let you move ahead,

            Another will transport the drinker back instead,

            Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

            Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line,

            Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

            To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

            First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

            You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;

            Second, different are those who stand at either end,

            But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;

            Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

            Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

            Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

            Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

 

"A logic puzzle," said Hermione with a smile as Harold made a face and said, "Of course."

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I hate logic puzzles. I suck at them."

Hermione snickered. "I don't."

"Good, because otherwise we'd be stuck here forever. I can only get us as far as knowing that the bottle we need is not at either end of the line and that the one on the very right can't be poison, because it's not left of anything, and it would need to be left of nettle wine to be poison."

"Actually," said Hermione, "that's not necessarily true. It said some poison will be on nettle wine's left side, but there's three bottles of poison and only two bottles of wine, so it--" She cut herself off at Harold's venomous scowl.

"Will you just..." He waved his hand at the bottles. "Which one is it?"

Hermione stepped up to the table and muttered to herself, pointing at the various bottles as she went. Finally, she pointed at the smallest bottle in the line up.

"This one," she said firmly.

"You're sure?" asked Harold.

"Positive," said Hermione.

"All right." There was barely enough potion for two sips. "I'll go first. If this doesn't work..."

"It'll work," Hermione said with a glare.

Harold nodded. "I'll call out when I'm through, then you drink and follow me."

He tilted the bottle against his lips, only opening them a little so he didn't accidentally drink all of the potion.

Liquid ice flowed down his throat, and Harold shuddered as it spread from his stomach into every corner of his body from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes.

"C-cold," he said through chattering teeth, exhaling a puffy white cloud. 

"Go," said Hermione, pushing him toward the doorway with the black flames. "Quick before it wears off."

Harold stumbled forward and stopped with his nose right in front of the crackling black flames. He gulped and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the pain as he took a step forward. Another step. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes, yelped at the sight of dark fire all around him, and took a flying leap forward. Patting himself down, he realized the flames hadn't touched him at all.

Harold exhaled a shuddering sigh and took a look around the room. It was another small, circular chamber, and in the middle of it, reaching almost to the ceiling, stood the Mirror of Erised.

Harold's hands balled into fists as he stepped closer.

The flames roared behind him, pulling his glare away from the treacherous mirror. He opened his mouth to apologize to Hermione for not calling out and turned around. But it wasn't Hermione who had stepped through the fire.


	16. The Man with Two Faces

It was Professor Quirrell.

"Professor? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Prince," said Quirrell with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. His timid stammer was gone and his face was perfectly smooth. "Then again, I suppose I should thank you for sparing me the hard work to get here."

Harold took a step back.

"What do you mean?"

It didn't make sense. Quirrell wasn't supposed to be here. Hermione and Harold had been alone in the potions chamber. He gasped.

"What did you do to Hermione?"

"Oh, Ms. Granger is rather tied up at the moment. I couldn't let her have that last sip of potion, now, could I?"

Harold gulped. It was all over now. The professor would tie him up, too, and take him straight to Dumbledore. He had botched up the plan and missed his only chance to destroy the stone. Unless he could convince Quirrell to help him.

"Professor, please," he said. "The Philosopher's Stone is dangerous. It needs to be destroyed! There's a dangerous creature out there. It's already killed a unicorn and it's trying to take the stone to become immortal. You have to help me, please, sir!"

Quirrell cocked his head to the side, making the large turban list precariously on the back of his head. He blinked his eyes a couple of times, opened his mouth, and started to laugh. It was a cold, heartless cackle.

"Oh, you foolish boy." He took a step closer. "Destroying the stone is the last thing I want to do. Why would I, when my master needs it?"

"M-master?" Harold's heart pounded as he took another step back. "What?"

"Don't you see?" asked Quirrell. "Do you still not understand?" He shook his head. "I expected more from a Slytherin. I'm not interested in protecting the stone, much less destroying it. I'm here to steal it for my master! Now get out of my way and be quiet. I'll deal with you when I'm finished."

Quirrell rushed forward, swiping a heavy arm toward Harold's face. Harold stumbled away from the blow and fell to the ground as the professor barreled past him and came to a halt directly in front of the Mirror of Erised.

Everything started to make sense. Harold's head exploded with a terrible pain as he stared at the back of Quirrell's purple turban. Through the pain, he remembered the many times he had caught the professor lurking around the third floor corridor. He remembered his uncle's dire warning to stay away from Quirrell. He remembered Uncle Severus fighting with Quirrell at the Quidditch game, and even further back, when his uncle and Quirrell were the only ones who came down from the third floor when the troll attacked on Halloween -- the troll that looked an awful lot like the one he and Hermione had just sneaked past.

"It was you!" Harold yelled through gritted teeth. "You sent that troll! You killed the unicorn!"

"Yes, yes," said Quirrell, never taking his eyes off the mirror. "The troll was meant to distract, and my master needed the blood to survive. Now, how does this mirror work?"

He tapped alongside the frame and walked around it once, then looked up at the inscription at the top.

"I don't understand," he said impatiently. "It's clearly magical. I see myself presenting the stone to my master, but obviously I don't have the stone! What is the secret?"

Harold crawled away from Quirrell and the mirror. His forehead burned as if his scar had burst open. He pressed a hand to it, expecting to feel blood, but there was nothing but smooth skin. When he squeezed his eyes shut, tears trickled down his cheeks.

"Wait."

The cold, high-pitched voice sent a chill down Harold's back.

"Wait," it said again. "Show me the boy."

The voice seemed to come from Quirrell's body, but it wasn't Quirrell who spoke, because the professor answered with the timid stammer he had suffered all year.

"B-but M-master, are you--"

"NOW!"

"Yes, Master."

Harold watched, frozen in horror as Quirrell turned away from the mirror and slowly stepped toward him. 

"My master wants to see you, Prince. You should consider it an honor."

As he spoke, he slowly unraveled the purple turban from around his head. Quirrell pounced. Harold flinched and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Look at me, boy," said the cold, high-pitched voice.

It was so close to his face he could smell its foul breath.

Harold trembled, holding his breath and clenching his fists as tightly as he could. Why wasn't his uncle here to protect him? Why had he been so stupid?

"Look at me!"

Harold's eyes snapped open and he screamed.

Blood red eyes glared at him from a chalk white face with slits for nostrils and a lipless mouth.

Pain exploded in his forehead and his vision went black as he screamed and screamed.

"Silencio!"

In the silence that followed, Harold could hear his heart hammering against his chest. He was still screaming, but no sound came out of his mouth. Professor Quirrell was kneeling on the ground, his back turned to Harold, with that awful face staring at him where the back of Quirrell's head should have been.

"Harry Potter."

The scream died in his throat. He gasped for air and stared in terror at the glowing blood red eyes.

"And so we meet again, just as I am finally about to regain my full strength." The smile on its lips looked like a bloody gash. "Now, where is the stone?"

Harold pressed his lips tightly together. He had no idea where the stone was. He didn't even know how the creature in the back of Quirrell's head knew his real name. He didn't know anything except that he was scared and in pain. A shudder went through him and the pain in his head worsened as the menacing face moved even closer.

"Where is it?"

He wished he knew so he could destroy it. Then this would all be over.

"Show me boy, or do you want to die like your parents?"

Harold reared back, stunned.

"Who are you?" he mouthed without a sound.

"You don't know?" said the high-pitched voice. "I'm the one who gave you the scar that you hide. I'm the one who killed your parents. I am Lord Voldemort."

Harold shook his head. Tears burst from his eyes and he scrambled away and onto his feet.

"SEIZE HIM!"

He ran around Quirrell, barely avoiding the clutching hands as he hurtled toward the mirror. If he could see where the stone was... All he needed was a glimpse.

He stared into the mirror, but all he saw was himself. His scar glowed brightly on his forehead.

"Come on," he pleaded desperately.

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and pain seared through his forehead, but Harold fought it, digging his fingernails into the back of the hand. To his surprise, Quirrell pulled away as if he was burnt.

"SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Lord Voldemort again.

But Harold didn't look away from the mirror, willing it to show him the hiding place of the Philosopher's Stone.

The boy in the mirror smiled, shoved a hand into his pocket, and pulled out a blood-red stone. He winked and started to lower the stone again. Harold's eyes widened. He could feel something begin to take shape in his pocket, and Quirrell's hands were back on his shoulders, pulling him away.

"No!" He writhed, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulled his wand from his robes, brandished it at the mirror, and uttered the first spell he could think of.

CRASH!

The Mirror of Erised exploded. Glass shards hurtled in a million different directions, sliced through Harold's robes, and rained to the ground with a tinkling sound as they bounced across the stone floor. Harold's pocket was still empty.

"NO!" Lord Voldemort and Quirrell screamed at the same time.

"KILL HIM!" screeched Voldemort.

Something heavy struck Harold across the head. The next moment he was on his back, lying in a mess of shards. Professor Quirrell was on top of him, his face a twisted scowl as he squeezed Harold's throat with cold fingers.

"My hands! It burns!" Quirrell whimpered, loosening his grip.

Harold gasped for breath, pulling at Quirrell's arms to no avail.

"Kill him!"

Quirrell howled and tightened his grip again. Harold squirmed and wriggled, kicking his legs. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. The pain was blinding. He pushed at Quirrell's chest, tried to reach the professor's face, but it was too far away. Voldemort's voice was still screeching, but it sounded muffled and distant. After a moment, his head began to feel really light, but his arms were really heavy, too heavy to keep pushing, and too short to reach. Harold let them drop. The pain was not so bad anymore. He closed his eyes. It was okay. The stone was gone. The mirror was gone. The pain was ...

 

Harold awoke with a jolt, gasping for breath. He'd had the most terrible nightmare that he'd gone after the Philosopher's Stone, and Voldemort had been hiding in the back of Professor Quirrell's head all along, trying to steal it so he could make himself immortal.

He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and cleared his throat. It was really sore. He must have screamed in his sleep. Why hadn't Blaise woken him up? Harold looked over to the next bed to scold his friend.

That was when he realized he was in the hospital wing. Harold sat very still and closed his eyes. His heart hammered in his chest. It hadn't been a dream.

"Good afternoon, Harry."

He whipped around with a startled scream.

Dumbledore was sitting in a chair at the foot of the hospital bed. He was smiling benignly and his blue eyes twinkled from behind his half-moon spectacles.

"It's Harold," he rasped, holding a hand to his sore throat. "Where's my uncle?"

He didn't want to see Dumbledore. If it really hadn't been a dream, if everything had really happened, then he wanted nothing more than to see Uncle Severus and beg him to go home.

"He's right outside," said Dumbledore. "He was certainly very distressed when he found out what had happened, so I thought it best if you and I had the chance to talk first."

Harold glared at the crazy codger. As far as he was concerned, he had nothing to say to Dumbledore that could be uttered without getting Harold expelled. He looked away and noticed that the table beside his bed was piled high with cards and candy from people wishing him well. His eyes widened and he searched around the other beds in the hospital room.

"Justin?" he rasped. "And Hermione and Neville? Are they all right?"

"They are perfectly fine," said Dumbledore with twinkling eyes. "Naturally, they will want to see you as soon as possible. I do believe the Weasley twins have also been inquiring after your well-being. Though, I'm sad to say, their methods have resulted in Madam Pomfrey banning them from visiting."

Harold smiled. He was flattered, and wondering just what methods the terror twins had used to drive the school's matron out of her wits. He would have to ask them later. He looked up at Dumbledore, who was gazing back at him with an earnest expression.

"What happened?" Harold finally broached the subject that Dumbledore undoubtedly wanted to discuss.

"Well," said Dumbledore as he leaned back in his chair. "When young Mr. Longbottom brought Mr. Finch-Fletchley into the hospital wing that night, well past curfew and with a serious head injury, of course Madam Pomfrey alerted me immediately. At that point, I was already in discussion with Professor McGonagall, concerning your discovery in the forest, and your not so well-laid plans for the Philosopher's Stone." He furrowed his bushy silver brows and there was a sharp glint in his watery blue eyes.

"Someone had to do it," Harold grumbled under his breath.

"When I found you, it was almost too late. Luckily, I was able to pull Quirrell away from you in the nick of time."

Harold cocked his head to the side. It was curious that Dumbledore hadn't mentioned the other person in the room.

"What about Voldemort?" he asked.

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid Voldemort was able to escape."

"What!? How!?" He coughed and wheezed as his sore throat burned from the effort of raising his voice.

Dumbledore sighed.

"Not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die and disappeared into the shadows."

"Quirrell died?" Harold was even more confused now. The last thing he remembered, Quirrell had been very much alive and choking Harold to death.

"Yes. Voldemort has never been merciful. He treats his followers no better than his enemies, and Quirrell paid the price for carrying out his master's wishes."

"But I don't understand--"

"The night your parents were killed, they died to save you. Love as powerful as that can leave its own mark. Not a scar, but a guard, if you will, giving you some protection that will stay with you forever. Quirrell, with his heart full of greed and hatred, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not harm you without suffering the agony of its effect. It was too much, and once Voldemort had left his body, Quirrell succumbed to his injuries."

Harold pressed his lips together. He could not feel any pity for the man who had tried to murder him. The only thing he felt was apprehension about the fact that Voldemort might come back to try again.

"Voldemort's going to try again, isn't he?"

"That is as unfortunate as it is true, but as long as there are people who are willing to fight and delay his plans, he may never rise to power again."

Harold couldn't help but think of the words blindly optimistic as Dumbledore blinked owlishly behind his spectacles. The old man cleared his throat and smiled a crooked smile.

"Now that I have answered your questions, will you answer one of mine in return?"

Harold bit down on his lip and nodded for Dumbledore to go ahead.

"Why did you destroy the mirror and the stone?"

His jaw dropped with a deadpan stare, completely baffled that the old man still didn't understand.

"Because, sir," he said slowly, "It was the right thing to do. No real good could ever come from either of those things and all they do is hurt people in the end."

"I see." Dumbledore nodded and wobbled his head back and forth. "Thank you for clearing that up."

He got up from the chair with a smile and helped himself to a chocolate frog. "May I? I've been collecting them for decades and I've still never found Ptolemy."

"Go ahead," said Harold.

"Thank you," he said, unwrapping the chocolate frog. "Alas, it's Morgana, again. Let me send in your uncle. I'm sure he has a lot to say."

Seconds after the headmaster had walked out, the door to the hospital wing banged open again and a thunderous whirlwind of black robes blew down the hallway between beds, bearing down on Harold.

"You," Uncle Severus said in his silkiest tone, "will be serving detention and otherwise grounded until the Whomping Willow shrivels into a husk!"

Harold winced. The old tree near the lake might look gnarly and dry, but anyone who made the mistake of getting too close would learn very quickly that there was a lot of life in its mighty swinging limbs.

He hesitantly raised his head. His uncle's face was ashen, and there were deep, dark shadows under his blood-shot black eyes.

Something popped inside Harold and he threw himself at his uncle's chest. Tears burst from his eyes and all he could do was hold on tight and blubber through them about how sorry he was and how much he wanted to go home.

 

After destroying the Philosopher's Stone and surviving Voldemort's attempt to kill him (for a second time), the final exams didn't provide much of a challenge. Contrary to Hermione's fears, Harold was out of the hospital wing two days before they began, and they went over without a hitch, except for Neville blowing up his cauldron during the Potions exam.

They didn't talk about what had happened until after their last exam in History of Magic. When Harold finally told Hermione, Neville, and Justin his story, sitting on the lawn outside the Quidditch pitch, they were all shocked, and when he revealed that Voldemort had been lurking under Quirrell's turban the whole year, they gasped and shuddered at the thought. Hermione shook herself with a grimace before her expression turned thoughtful.

"I still wonder how he got into Gringotts."

"Gringotts?" asked Neville, shooing a bee off a clump of grass and closer toward a daisy.

"Yeah. It had to have been Quirrell who broke into the vault, trying to steal the stone last year. I just wonder how he did it?"

Harold shrugged.

"Does it really matter?" he said. "I'm just glad the thing is destroyed. I'm more interested in what happened to you anyway."

"It was scary," she said. "One moment, I was standing at the table, watching you jump through the fire, and the next I was on the ground, tied up with ropes, and Quirrell was drinking my potion and going after you. I couldn't scream for help, because I was worried the troll would hear me, and then Dumbledore showed up and ran right past me through the fire. When he got back, he was carrying you."

Her face went grim as she yanked at the grass in front of her. Neville frowned and smacked the back of her hand. She quickly let go of the grass and looked back up.

"Anyway, he waved his wand and freed me, and then he made a whole new staircase appear and we took it straight up to the hospital wing. If he hadn't been there..." Her fists clenched again and her eyes went glassy.

Justin cleared his throat loudly.

"Well," he said, "it all worked out for the best, so now all we've got to worry about is our exam results."

Harold nodded quickly.

"And don't forget the Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor match on Saturday. I hope Ravenclaw steamrolls them. Don't worry, Hermione, we'll all be there to show our support."

"Right," she scoffed. "Because I'm the one who cares so much about the game."

"You should!" said Harold. "It's your House, after all. Where's your House pride?"

She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and cuffed him in the shoulder.

"You just want Ravenclaw to trounce them so they don't have a chance at the House Cup."

"Magic Number 7," Harold said with a grin.

 

The Quidditch match was a complete success; with their large mixed-House group cheering in the stands, Ravenclaw buried Gryffindor two hundred and ten to thirty. Slytherin took the Quidditch Cup by a hair in front of Ravenclaw, with Gryffindor coming in third and Hufflepuff last.

On the day of the leaving feast, the Great Hall was decorated in silver and green and the Slytherin House crest was displayed proudly on the wall behind the staff table. Harold's chest swelled with pride. The snake on the banner looked a little like it was sticking its tongue out at the Gryffindor table.

Everyone at the Slytherin table was in a great mood and they only stopped talking about Magic Number 7 and the Quidditch Cup when Dumbledore cleared his throat and raised his hands at the High Table.

"Another year gone!" he said cheerfully. "And what a year it has been. Before we sink our teeth into the delicious feast that has been prepared for us, there is one announcement that has to be made. The House Cup this year goes to Slytherin with five hundred and thirty-eight points. Congratulations, Slytherin."

Cheers erupted around the Slytherin table. The applause from the other Houses was luke-warm at best, but Harold couldn't care less. They had done what they had set out to do. Smart students, cunning prefects, and an excellent Quidditch team had earned them both Cups at the end of the year. Terence Higgs looked ready to burst with joy, having capped his final year with a double win. Next year, they would have to find a new seeker who was as good as Terence. There was a tiny gleam of hope in Harold that Madam Hooch might make good on her vague promise and talk his uncle around.

The food appeared in front of them and everyone dug in, celebrating their big win and chatting excitedly about their plans for the summer holidays.

 

The exam results brought few surprises. Thanks to their study group, everyone had passed with more or less great success. Naturally, Hermione had the best grades in first year across all four Houses (tied with Millie in Transfiguration). Harold had received an Outstanding in Potions and had managed to get at least an Acceptable in all the rest. Neville had been able to make up for his Poor in Potions with an Outstanding in Herbology. Pansy wouldn't shut up about her and Malfoy's Excellent grades until Millie not so gently reminded her that they'd been bested by a muggle-born. The look on their faces was priceless.

The final couple of days went by in a flurry of packing trunks and emptying wardrobes. The teachers handed out more papers, including selection sheets to second years and above to pick their electives for the next school year and warnings to all students not to use magic at home. The latter notices ended up as paper planes zooming across the Slytherin common room in an impromptu air battle that ended in the fireplace. Salazar was shrunk back to the size of a Rubik's cube and held safely in Harold's hands as they crossed the lake on the tiny boats. Trevor the toad looked annoyed with his bulging eyes narrowed to slits inside the covered unbreakable-glass bowl Professor Sprout had given Neville.

The benches in their compartment were fit to burst, with eight of them stuffed into a space meant for six, but they didn't mind. Harold, Blaise, Justin and Neville spent the train ride to London playing Exploding Snap, while the girls mostly giggled and gossiped about stuff in Witch Weekly. Justin sprung for a boat load of candy and none of them noticed the mountains and fields give way to homes and offices until the voice over the speaker announced that they would arrive in King's Cross station in five minutes.

Things got chaotic as they all scrambled to get out of their robes and into their Muggle outfits. In the tussle, Neville dropped Trevor's bowl, but the unbreakable glass bounced gently across the floor until it landed at Tracy's feet. Trevor did not look amused when she handed the bowl back to Neville with a smile.

It took a while to get all of them out of the train, and the platform was so stuffed with people it was difficult to find anyone. Harold craned his neck around a clump of third years blocking his view.

Neville spotted his grandmother first. She was easy to pick out of a crowd, as she was the only one wearing a wide-rimmed black hat topped with a long-necked stuffed vulture. 

"Gran!" he shouted and waved before he turned back to Harold, Justin, and Hermione. "Promise we'll write each other?"

"Of course!" said Justin as Harold and Hermione nodded.

Once Neville was gone, Justin turned back to them.

"We'll have to figure out a way to visit each other. Maybe I can convince Mother to hook up our house to the Floo network."

"I'll ask my parents, too," said Hermione. "I wonder if it works with a gas fireplace."

"Muggles," said Millie, rolling her eyes as she dragged her trunk past them. "Of course it works. As long as there's a flue, you can floo. Beat you next year, Granger," she added with a cheeky grin.

Hermione snorted.

"Looking forward to it, Millie."

She waved after the bigger girl who lumbered off with her trunk in tow to join a tall couple standing near one of the pillars. The woman had the same dark curls as Millie, and the man had the same broad face and shoulders.

Hermione turned back to Justin and Harold.

"My parents are waiting for me outside," she said. "I'll send you an owl as soon as I can, once I've figured out how to get a hold of one."

"I'll come with. Mother said she'd be waiting outside, too. Walking through the wall last time was apparently a bit too much for her." Justin shrugged.

They said their goodbyes and Harold watched his friends disappear through the gate, one at a time, at the direction of a wizened old guard. The man kept holding people up to ensure they didn't attract everyone's attention by having a large group burst through a solid wall into the Muggle station all at once.

"If you're finished woolgathering, we can go."

Harold turned around with a big grin.

Uncle Severus was standing behind him with an annoyed scowl on his face and his arms crossed over his chest. The black Muggle suit he wore wasn't quite as impressive as his robes, but a few first years still squeaked in terror as they darted past him into the arms of their parents.

"All finished," Harold said. Then he frowned at the clump of people crowding around the ticket barrier. "Do we have to take the long way home?" 

Uncle Severus followed his gaze, and the scowl turned into a sneer. Without saying a word, he slipped his wand out of his sleeve, shrunk Harold's trunk to the size of a snuff box, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he placed his hand on Harold's shoulder, spun them around, and they disappeared from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters with a pop of displaced air.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments along the way. Now that this story is complete, I expect it will find a few more readers. Please, let me know what you think. I love comments and I'm a sucker for feedback. 
> 
> As of right now, I am going to try to concentrate on my original novel, but rest assured, Harold Prince will continue to bug me until I cave and continue his story.
> 
> Until then toodles and tata!


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